


I'd walk through hell for you (let it burn right through my shoes)

by technicolouredmonochrome



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: M/M, Princess!Gavin AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-10
Updated: 2013-11-10
Packaged: 2018-01-01 01:14:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 29,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1038590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/technicolouredmonochrome/pseuds/technicolouredmonochrome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Michael Jones is sent to save a princess who's been locked away in a tower guarded by a vicious dragon, nothing turns out to be what he expects.<br/>(Otherwise known as Gavin Free is actually a princess and the story of how Michael Jones and Gavin Free fell in love.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'd walk through hell for you (let it burn right through my shoes)

Another branch catches on his clothes and Michael curses his luck as the cotton sleeve of his undershirt rips. He brings his broadsword up across his shoulder and swings it down, hard, the branches shattering and leaves fluttering to the forest floor, painting a splotch of green against the brown and grey underfoot. He's been travelling for a week now, and where the steward of the throne had told him his path will get easier with time, fatigue is beginning to slow him down.

He plants his sword into the soft undergrowth, leaning heavily against it and catching his breath. If he has to spend much longer searching for that goddamned castle-prison-whateverthefuckitissupposedtobe, he is going to explode. Patience is _definitely_ not one of his virtues. Hefting his pack higher over his shoulder, he shakes his sword free of the dead leaves clinging to it, jaw working and heaving a sigh. Since he made a promise, since he's made it this far, he's not going to give up now. He pulls out his bottle and takes a swig of water, weighing the almost empty moleskin in his hand. This mission had better end sooner rather than later.

He finds a small rock a short distance later, and figures from the shadows stretching underfoot that he has enough time for a quick breather. As he sits, he carefully takes in his surroundings, the dark green and occasional yellow in the branches. Autumn is coming, and everything around him begins to creak with age and senescence.

The trees give a loud groan as the winds began to pick up, a low melancholic tune that sings of lost years and forgotten histories that the forest holds beneath its roots. Overhead, leaves are fluttering wildly in the strong breeze, shattering the illusion of calm silence that had fallen on the forest the moment Michael first stepped between these trees; something is stirring in the distance, Michael is getting closer. He starts to stand with this knowledge, and as though the forest is a single entity that reads these thoughts, it inhales sharply and holds its breath, leaning ever-so-slightly inwards. One, two, three, and _exhale_. Michael feels his hair lift with the wind, and he stops where he is to see the trunks bending and branches bowing in the direction he’s facing, as though telling him in their own quiet voice that _this is the way_. With this exhalation, the forest bursts into momentary life. Birds lift from their nests, bright spots of colour dotting the evergreen skyline; animals leap from their hidden places, a low rumbling beneath his feet as they pass by _so so close_ that Michael feels their ferocity eat through the thick air, sending a tingling down his spine. It’s a warning that Michael shouldn’t move, so he doesn’t, holds his position between the branches and listens to the sounds of hooves and the trilling of birds, watches the shifting shadows along the forest floor and feels the slow thudding of his heart in his chest, a low beat to which the noise around him begins to subside.

As abruptly as everything starts, it ends, and a blanket of silence falls once again on the forest, creating another facade of calm that thrums with hidden energy. The wind is slowing to a soft breeze that occasionally picks at Michael’s hair, but is otherwise silent and completely still. A lone leaf falls into his path, bright red, like the colour of his hair in the afternoon sun. It’s a gift from the forest, their way of saying _good luck_ as he hefts the pack a little higher over his shoulder and starts a slow trudge through the undergrowth again. He doesn’t bat away the branches that catch on his clothes this time, merely tugs himself free and keeps moving forward, the single red leaf tucked firmly into the front pocket of his pants, its stem digging into his thigh with every step he takes, a reminder that the forest is on his side.

 

 

The tower before him is looming and tall. It casts a long, dark shadow across the bright greenery of the surrounding forest. After trekking for another exhausting four hours, the forest had finally cleared out to reveal an old, crooked, menacing looking tower which looks like everything he imagined it to be. The bricks are covered in moss, making it impossible to climb up without finding a set of stairs. There are no windows, and the top of the tower reaches far above the clouds. He doesn't look forward to climbing that high up, if he could grab a lift from somewhere, it would definitely make his life a lot easier. All he had to do is get to the top of the tower, find the princess, bring her down, get her home. Simple as that. It was a four-step plan that required no over thinking whatsoever.

Just as he's about to leave the cover of the forest however, he sees it.

A long moss green tail, curled lazily around the circumference of the tower, its scales flickering in the sunlight, dull with age. The snake-like appendage ends in a sharp point, which is constantly moving and scratching against the walls, flicking bits of moss off the rocks, only for more to grow when the flat side presses against the tower.

A fucking dragon.

Honestly, Michael is more pissed than terrified that there's a _huge fucking fire-breathing man-eating_ dragon (and did he mention fire-breathing?) that no one bothered to warn him about. They could have left him a note. Sent him a message by pigeon. Put it in the fucking contract he signed before he left. And this, right here, made everything ten times more complicated and fucking worse off.

Now he had to have a five-step plan, inserting a _defeat a fucking dragon_ as step one. Lowering himself into a crouch, he does the typical, shitty thing that probably serves no purpose other than to make the person doing it feel safer. Surprisingly, it helps. He rolls swiftly into the next bush, gripping his sword tightly against his side to prevent it from clattering when it hits the ground. He forgets about his backpack however, and although there isn't much in it, the buckles scrape roughly against the leaves on the forest floor, leaving an echoing rustle in the clearing.

He stills behind the next bush, holds his breath and waits for anything to happen.

There's a rumble from behind him.

Peering cautiously through the foliage, he spots yellow eyes blinking slowly into focus, nostrils flaring as the beast wakes. It doesn't do much except yawn, opening its jaws to reveal insanely sharp teeth that sets Michael on edge, its forked tongue flicking once before moving to run over its rows (yes fucking _rows_ ) of teeth, all yellow with age. He sucks in another breath, running through his head a hundred ways this can possibly go down. More than half of them end with him in flames.

But let it not be said that Michael Jones is a coward. He had set out on a mission and he intends to finish it. So he pushes those images of him running through the forest on fire to the back of his head and focus instead on how and when he's going to take the dragon out. A blow to the head should stun it, followed by a quick slice along the jugular before finishing it off by stabbing it in the soft underside of its belly. He lowers his backpack gently into the bush, never know when it might come in handy later (if he makes it out of this alive), and tightens his grip on his sword.

"Let's fucking do this," he grits into the silence of the forest, the only pep talk he's willing to give himself before facing the shit storm he is _sure_ is about to occur. When he steps out from behind the bush, the dragon turns to face him, and all coherent thought dissolves into a puddle of useless words. Blow to the jugular, stab in the belly, slice along the head. Or did he mix that up?

It doesn’t matter in the next seconds because the flat side of his sword has landed against the side of the dragon, making it flinch on impact, spurring it into action. Wings extend from where it had been folded neatly against its side, eyes sharpening from its dilated state and focusing on Michael. The beast rises into the air with two flaps of its wings, lifting it higher and higher up. Michael still has his sword levelled in front of him as the beast hovers uncertainly in the air for a beat, and then begins it descent, swooping in with its claws and fangs bared.

The movement exposes it underbelly though, and Michael slashes thrice against it, only drawing blood on the last blow from his sword. The dragon gives a howl and tries to put some distance between itself and Michael, landing on all fours with a loud thud. There is blood running down the side of his sword, but Michael is too focused on the yellow eyes narrowing at him, teeth bared in a hiss as a its tail starts swishing angrily behind it. Michael gulps as a stream of smoke erupts from its nostrils.

This isn’t going to end well.

But then he hears a “humph” and a low growl before the dragon is _again_ seated with its side against the castle, tail curling lazily around the base of the tower. It tilts its head away from Michael and begins licking at the wound on its underside, making soft whimpering noises every now and then.

“Fucking knight.”

Michael starts, eyes darting nervously around. Just where the _fuck_ did those words come from?

The dragon snorts (snorts!) at him when he calls out a tentative “Hello?”, yawns again, revealing those rows of teeth that make Michael flinch, before rolling its eyes at him. Wait. "What the fuck?" he murmurs, eyes scanning the huge beast for any sign of movement that doesn't involve its jaws or head.

The dragon snorts again, a deep rumbling from within the beast. Michael hopes it isn't hungry. "Took you long enough."

He blinks incredulously and spins around. Something warm yet cold and slimy hits him square on the back, and he curses loudly when he turns around to face the beast. He belatedly realises he shouldn't have turned his back on something as dangerous as a dragon that could probably annihilate him without so much as lifting its head. Levelling the sword between him and the giant dragon head, he bravely meets eyes that are quickly glazing over with sleep.

“Yes, it’s the fucking dragon,” and he starts at the unexpected noise, taking a step back. “You wounded me, like cut me open and drew fucking blood from me. What were you thinking you idiot? I didn’t actually expect you to _hurt_ me, I mean what the fuck is that sword made of anyway?”

Michael doesn't know what to say, doesn't know what to do, so he takes another tinny step back, but keeps the scowl on his face. He isn't backing down, just giving himself more space for when he attacks. At least that's what he tells himself when the dragon lets out an unimpressed harrumph.

“Looks like we’ve got an idiot here. An _asshole_ who doesn’t have a fucking ounce of respect for my magic. What a dickhead.” Michael could have sworn he heard a petulant whine, but is distracted from that thought when the giant lizard sighs, a low rumbling that disturbs the leaves littering the floor of the clearing. It becomes weird and creepy when they begin swirling, circling the dragon and the tower, the giant form of the beast suddenly shrinking behind the wall of leaves. Through the curtain of green and yellow, he sees its shadow becoming smaller and smaller until all that's left is a human form. When the leaves flutter harmlessly to the ground, what's left of the dragon is a bearded man who has a series of weird images printed on his arms. The weirdest part of this man is that these images are glowing, glowing as the man coughs and a stream of smoke leaves his mouth. Clearing his throat and clasping his hands behind his back, he smiles at Michael like he's a rainbow on a particularly stormy day, all previous enmity forgotten.

"So you're finally here."

 

 

His name is Geoff and apparently he's a wizard. And because he is a wizard and has this huge fucking array of powers, he thought it would be fun to kidnap the princess of the kingdom and keep her in this huge fucking tower and pretend to be a dragon so that only the bravest of knights will come and attempt to rescue her.

"So this is your fucked up way of match-making," Michael growls, hand flexing around the handle of his sword now hanging uselessly at his side. He seriously cannot believe he travelled all this fucking way to find out that he had been _played by an old bearded man with glowing arms_ who wanted him to marry the girl in that tower. If the whole situation turns out to be more fucked up, Michael will just have to throw himself off the top of the goddamn tower.

The asshole of a wizard looks way too cheerful for someone who has been pretending to be a dragon and sitting at the bottom of an awfully isolated tower for _fifteen whole fucking years_. “I wouldn't call it 'fucked up' per se, I think this is actually a pretty foolproof method of finding a suitor for the princess. Plus, now that you’re _actually_ here, I won’t have to sit here and guard the tower any longer. It was boring as dicks sitting around doing nothing.”

“And you achieved _all of this_ by locking her in a tower since she was ten! How fucked up are you?"

Geoff seems unimpressed by his outburst, ignoring him completely in favour of picking a stray leaf from his hair. "You came here to finish a mission for the royal family and since you intend to complete it so I won't waste your time. The stairs are on the east side of the tower, and are hidden by a thick set of moss," Michael rolls his eyes at that. "The climb should take you at least a day, or a day and a half if you take the steps one at a time instead of two–"

"One whole day to climb to the top!" Geoff just shrugs, and continues rambling like he hadn't heard Michael.

"Once you get to the top, just find the fucking princess and come back down. I'll have two horses prepared to ease your journey home as well as some food and water. But if you two need more time in the tower," and he grins conspiratorially at Michael, winking and beckoning him to follow as he begins circling the tower.

Michael huffs irritably, face turning considerably hot when he considers what Geoff is saying. "Since you're a fucking wizard and everything, think you can give me a lift to the top?"

Geoff rolls his eyes (and Michael can, for a moment, see yellow eyes narrowing and blinking and watching him, and he wants to laugh because this old bearded man really is a fucking dragon even without the tail and the teeth) but waves his hand lazily across the clearing, and Michael finds that his feet are no longer on the floor. Being suspended in mid air is like riding a horse without a saddle. Tense up too much and Michael feels the tendrils of wind around his arms and legs tighten their hold on him until they're pulling him downwards instead of hoisting him up; relaxing all his limbs just leaves him completely susceptible to the air around him which tosses and turns him like he weighs nothing. He mimics Geoff's stance, feet slightly apart, arms loose but controlled by his side, and feels the wind wrap itself around his body and begin a controlled ascent.

He looks back down when he's almost at the top, seeing the tiny black speck that he assumes is Geoff. Flames envelope the motionless figure below him all of a sudden and the wizard is gone with a puff of smoke, leaving a slightly blackened and singed patch of land in his wake. Michael cant help but snort incredulously; that wizard definitely had a flair for the dramatics.

The ascent stops when he is level with a single unopened window. There is no light from within, and there are minimal cracks in the wood that makes up the window; Michael can only wonder how dark it must be in a room this high up.

 

 

The tower is an old building made mostly of stone and brick, the occasional wooden window leaving gaping holes in the tower’s surface. He pushes it open and it swings inward with a low creak.

The room is seemingly abandoned. Stone and wood that make up a large part of the room are weather-worn and disintegrating in places, despite the constant effort to patch up the various things hanging loose from the tower with nails and boards that are strapped like bandages along the circumference of the room’s curved wall.

Michael is a shadow against the stone floor, crouching on the ledge and gripping the edges of the window sill as he scans the room for any possible danger. When there is no sound, no movement, no _anything_ , he jumps into the silent room, landing with a soft thump, hands coming to rest on the hilt of his sword, the weight familiar against his hip and thigh. He takes a tentative step forward.

There is an old and musky tinge to the air in the enclosed area, the smell of decomposition emanating from every pore in the walls and enveloping the entire area, leaving the mark of its scent on the room, like a coffee stain on a piece of white parchment. Dust, suspended along the rays of light seeping into the otherwise darkened room, clings to every flat surface, covering table tops and wooden beams in a blanket of white that reminds Michael of the scene back in town during winter. Cloth hangs from the ceiling in ghostly off-white drapes, pieces of what Michael assumes had been a curtain lie forgotten on the floor, yellowed and badly moth-eaten. The furniture are few and sparsely arranged, revealing large expanses of cold, stone floor that is surprisingly smooth. Michael’s shoes slap loudly against the polished surface as he takes a few steps in to explore the room, creating echoes in the otherwise silent room.

A small but well-used bed is tucked against one wall, a cupboard a few steps away with a loose hinge is set next to a giant grandfather clock that sits and watches over the room, the loud “tick tick tick” of its hands suddenly resoundingly noticeable. A sense of impending doom abruptly crushes his lungs, squeezes them tight, forcing the air out of his lungs. Michael tries to slow his breathing against the onslaught of fear as he holds his position in the room. A shadow darts across the floor, and Michael turns, too quickly, spins around and tries to track the movement, but it’s gone when he looks again, and when his heartbeat has slowed, he convinces himself that it’s merely a trick of the light.

"Hello?" and his voice cracks at the end of the word, but his eyes continue darting around, taking in every nook, cranny and shadow that could possibly be hiding danger. "Your highne– oof!"

Long limbs and brown hair tackle him from somewhere behind the open window and before he knows it, Michael is on the floor with an armful of skinny and gangly. "You came!"

It's nothing more than a squeak against his chest, but Michael can distinctly hear that this is no damsel in distress.

He blinks rapidly and the person now straddling his hips comes into focus. A young lad, probably a year or two younger than him is bouncing excitedly in his lap, hair shaggy and flopping sloppily over his eyes. Michael blinks again and looks. At him. Him.

"What the–"

 

 

"What d'you mean I'm not a princess!" and Michael feels a headache blooming with each high-pitched whine the kid emits.

"Seriously Gavin, just shut the fuck up."

The kid lets out another whine, kicking a lone chair as Michael continues searching the room. He's _positive_ this Gavin isn't the princess he's looking for. Princesses are _ladies_ for fuck's sake, with long hair and pretty eyes who wear dresses and are usually completely helpless and useless in any situation. Gavin definitely fit the bill for _helpless and useless in any situation_ considering he got himself locked up in this goddamned tower to begin with, and pretty eyes isn't so far-fetched, his eyes are a beautiful sea green that–

Holy fuck.

"Blokes can be princesses too," he grumbles from somewhere behind Michael, the chair he's kicking scraping loudly against the floors. The noise echoes in the otherwise silent room, bouncing off the walls and amplifying with each additional movement. "I mean, you just have to be in trouble and need someone to help you to be a princess. Geoff said so."

Michael looks up from where he's crouched beneath a table, ramming his head against the bottom. "You know that idiot?"

"Geoff's not an idiot!" Gavin squawks indignantly, expression one of insult and horror. He glances around the room, as though expecting the man to appear from nowhere; Michael doesn't doubt that Geoff is powerful enough to do that. "And he told me you would come, a brave knight in armour and everything, and he was right!"

So maybe he isn't useless, just incredibly stupid.

"He didn't know who was coming. Just that the royal family would definitely send their bravest men after you.” Michael straightens up and dusts himself off, heaving a disappointed sigh when he notices that there are no other possible hiding places in the room. “And I can’t believe he didn’t fucking tell me you were a bloke.”

Gavin, for his part, pretends not to hear it. Or maybe he really doesn’t hear it, just exclaims, “So you do admit that I must be the princess!" completely oblivious to his evaporating patience.

"There's no other place for an _actual_ princess to hide so I guess you must be it," he replies, glaring at the boy across the room, willing him to disappear.

"I must be it? Why do you make it sound like it's a bad thing?" Gavin pouts, moving closer to where Michael is now positioned at the window, finding the quickest way to get them both down. "I mean, there's nothing wrong with blokes being princesses. Once in awhile, we want to feel cherished and protected too you know!" Michael ignores him in favour of fastening a rope through a hook that had conveniently materialised on the ceiling above. As he balances precariously on the ledge, he curses his luck when Gavin doesn't stop talking. He is, quite literally, seconds away from throwing himself off this goddamn tower. “And Geoff was really the best father ever! Like he always let me eat what I wanted, told me weird stories, occasionally brought some booze up here for me to drink, threw the most fantastic party when I turned twenty-one; the ten years I've spent here have been absolutely top!"

He doesn't miss the murmured "Not like the years I spent in that bloody castle," as he turns and fastens the rope around Gavin's waist. There's a moment of sympathy that makes Michael still, arms half wrapped around Gavin's waist. But when Gavin grins at him, lewd and sly and says "What now you're giving me a hug? How sweet", his sympathy flies out the window along with the last of his patience. He ties the other end of the rope to a lone cupboard and lets Gavin's next words fly over his head and join his patience and sympathy in the dirt far far below. Wrapping one hand in the rope and his other hooking firmly in the makeshift belt he had created for Gavin, he sighs.

"Gavin?"

He stops talking, if only for one, blessed moment, and Michael is glad he can hear the horses waiting for them somewhere beneath the haze of the clouds. "Yeah?"

"Shut the fuck up," and he propels them off the ledge and into the cloudy fog below.

 

 

"You know, you never did tell me your name brave knight," Gavin drawls as they land in the clearing below.

Michael immediately begins undoing the rope around Gavin's waist, taking extra care not to touch the boy at all. He ignores the eyes that are tracking his every move as his fingers deftly begin undoing the knot behind Gavin's back. "Sir Michael Jones," he says as he stands, glaring at the amused look on Gavin's face. "Stay here. I'll get the horses ready."

Gavin doesn't stay still though, keeps moving, keeps looking around. From the corner of his eye, he notices how Gavin keeps peering into the forest, and makes a mental note to keep Gavin close and keep him safe; it wouldn't do well for them to have survived the dragon and the non-threatening wizard only to be killed by some danger in the woods. The kid is curious, which isn't bad. But it isn't good either.

As he's pulling the first saddle over the horse, strapping in the new moleskins of water and packs of food, he hears a distant rustling. "Michael!" and he hates the way his name sounds from Gavin's lips, how he separates the 'i' and the 'c' with that stupid British accent, says the 'ch' without the 'h', drags the 'ae' into 'oo'. Hates the way Gavin speaks in general. "Michael look!"

Tying the reins of the horse to a nearby branch (he isn't taking any chances), he walks over to where Gavin is standing hunched over something with a look of wonder and thrill on his face. Which, he learns later, is never going to be a good thing.

"What's this Michael? Look at it!" Michael winces at how Gavin feels the need to say his name at every chance he gets. His annoyance vanishes though, when he gets a proper look at what Gavin is pointing excitedly at, starts to panic and feels his body freeze up completely. "Geoff said princesses are good with critters. So since I'm a princess, I'll be good with them won't I?" and he's crouching and inching closer to the animal on the ground which is a fucking rattlesnake and Michael just stares helplessly as Gavin continues moving closer and closer still.

The snake starts rattling its tail and hissing angrily in warning, but Gavin just looks even more fascinated.

"I think it likes me!"

Michael barely manages to snatch Gavin's hand back when the snake lunges, pulling the kid flush against his chest. "Shoo!" he yells, stepping in front of Gavin and uselessly brandishing his sword at the snake nestled in the leaves, an added speck of brown to the dull surroundings. "Go away!" The snake hisses at them once more (for good measure), and then slithers away into the dark of the forest.

"But Michael–"

"That was a fucking rattlesnake you moron!" he screams, spinning around to face Gavin whose hands are spread in what seems to convey a _what the hell are you doing?_. Or maybe he's asking for another fucking hug. Michael isn't exactly in the clearest mindset right now, everything a little fuzzy and buzzed out at the edges. "They aren't friendly, if that's what you're thinking. One bite from it and you're dead meat!”

"Well I couldn't bloody well know that could I," and Michael sees the red flush slowly spreading up from his neck and colouring his cheeks. "No one's ever told me what's outside the tower. You can't expect me to know what is safe and what isn't!"

"Which is why I told you to _stay here_ and you can't even fucking do that can you? What good are you then?" A hurt look crosses Gavin's features momentarily before he schools it into careful neutrality. But Michael doesn't care, he's too tired and too stressed out at all the unexpected twists and turns in this mission to give a flying fuck about what's going on in Gavin's head, so he does what he does best: he keeps screaming. "And I didn't save you from a fucking dragon for you to die just because you can't keep your hands to yourself or follow goddamn orders! I bet that's why you were kept in this fucking tower in the first place!"

The silence that follows stretches too long. Michael can only hear the thundering of his own heartbeat, too fast and too loud, thundering and filling in the silence between them. The adrenaline from the near death experience and the anger slowly begins ebbing away after a beat, leaving him boneless and just _tired_ , but his heart doesn’t slow, it keeps pumping and pumping and pumping, a loud thud thud thud that rings in Michael’s ears and causes his head to hurt. Something has closed off in Gavin's expression, and it is only then that Michael realises he's crossed some line that shouldn't have been crossed. But he's too proud to back down, so he turns his back to Gavin and tries to calm his heart, taking deep, slow breaths.

"Let's go," he finally says a minute later, back still turned to him.

Gavin pads wordlessly after him, follows him to where the horses are waiting. Michael works in silence, strapping the second saddle onto the other horse, and is thankful that Gavin stays quiet and just watches him work. The expression on his face is unnerving, but Michael doesn't look at him, doesn't even _glance_ at him, keeps strapping and buckling and tightening. When the second horse is finally fitted, he beckons Gavin over.

"Need help getting on?" he asks, offering his hand as Gavin draws nearer.

"No thank you.” The reply is curt, and Michael inwardly winces at how sharp it is, nothing like his previous mindless chatter. He nods in response, moving over to his own horse and hopping on in one swift movement.

"We ride for three days, and we'll stop when the sun goes down to give the horses some water and a rest for the night," he glances at Gavin who is perched solidly on his horse, only the flexing of his hands on the reins giving away how unfamiliar he is with riding. "If you're hungry or you need water, let me know. We have more than enough supplies."

Gavin doesn't acknowledge, just starts a little when the horse stomps its foot impatiently. Michael notices that he grips the reins a little tighter, the muscle in his jaw jumping a little as he grinds his teeth together. He feels a pang of regret, a low churning in the pit of his belly that he pushes to the back of his mind. It makes him uncomfortable and he doesn't have time or energy to deal with uncomfortable. So he packs it away, stuffs it in a little pocket to examine later and focuses instead on wrapping the reins firmly around his hands.

"Let's get this over and done with," he hears Gavin murmur. Not needing to feel even more regret gnawing at his insides, Michael spurs his horse into motion, heading straight for the thick undergrowth. A heartbeat later, he realises that he's the only one moving through the forest. He turns his horse around, only to see Gavin bouncing on his saddle, yelling incoherent words at the poor animal. It really is a sight to behold, and Michael blames it on the exhaustion and the stress when he snaps, but not in the way he expects to.

Even he is surprised by the first bark of laughter that escapes his mouth as he leans back on the horse, whole body shaking with each syllable that leaves his lips. "Holy shit," and Gavin looks indignant and vaguely insulted as he takes in Michael's hysterical laughter. "I thought you said that since you're a princess you would be good with fucking animals you shithead!”

"Shut up Michael," but through the tears clouding his vision he can see a smile slowly making its way onto Gavin's face, so he lets himself continue his laughter for a second longer than necessary, before dramatically wiping his eyes and urging his horse over to Gavin. He recognises what Gavin's doing with the smile tugging at the corner of his lips and the pout his mouth is firmly set in. He’s letting what happened before slide, his way of saying “just forget it” to Michael for his epic fuck up just now; and Michael’s going to take it for what it's worth. (He's just thankful Gavin sees his apology, sees the slump in his shoulders and his grip loosening slightly on the reins, his body slipping into _I really regret the shit I did just now I'm really fucking sorry_ , and Gavin, although he might not be the best at self-preservation, seems to be good enough with people and Michael is thankful for that; means that he wouldn't have to say much because he isn't the best with words.)

He gently eases the reins from between Gavin's hands and ties it to the back of his saddle. This is definitely going to slow them down but if Gavin can't ride, he would rather not risk it. He suddenly feels infinitely more relaxed, a little looser around the edges, and he realises that he's just thankful the worst of the danger is over.

The tension from earlier is slowly seeping away, and Gavin is much more comfortable in his place on the horse. "What are you laughing at Michael?" but there's no venom in his words, just mischief and excitement and thrill. He guesses that's what the prospect of adventure does to a person, and Michael tries for a smile, feeling the muscles in his face stretch and groan before clicking together. Something flashes in Gavin's eyes, Michael isn't sure what, but he turns to face the road ahead and nudges his horse into a slow trot.

"You okay back there?"

"Yeah," but his voice sounds slightly strained, and Michael twists around to find Gavin gripping the edge of the saddle, knuckles white and eyes wide.

"At least I won't have to leave you on the ground to mess with the animals."

"Shut up Michael," he says again and throws an incredibly dirty look his way, but Michael doesn't mind him.

"Next thing we need to do is teach you how to ride."

 

 

They had found a cave in the evening, when the shadows were growing longer with each passing minute and the sun disappearing behind the hills. The forest had been kind, sheltering them from the worst of the sun and its heat as they travelled through the thicket. Michael is just thankful that they had more than enough sustenance for travelling.

The cave is a dark figure in the cliff-side, a little ominous, but useful if they need shelter from the rain. The nerve-wrecking, panicky feeling is back, but Michael tamps it down through sheer willpower and by busying himself with various things, ignoring the growing shadow that seems to stretch and twist itself from within the cave. There doesn’t seem to be an option of going around the cave; it is just a giant black hole in the side of a huge wall that goes up for miles and miles, and never seems to have an end to it, sideways or up. They’ll probably keep along the wall tomorrow, follow the packed rock and soil until they reach another similar shadow against the mountainside. Keep following the shadows until it brings them home.

Michael has a fire going; it isn't much but it'll keep them warm enough. The flames cackle in the evening, charred wood snapping occasionally from the heat of the flames and throwing small sections of red hot wood into the air. It illuminates what little it can, and where light and darkness meet, the shadows seem to curl and hiss and shrink against the bold brightness of the flames. It makes Michael feel a little bit better, watching the battle between dark and light against the forest floor as he cooks and washes and cleans.

He let’s the warmth envelop him and keep him from the cold that keeps trying to claw its way out of his throat.

Gavin is moving around again, a whole afternoon of riding had left him antsy and slightly sore, so Michael decides that it should be okay for him to explore the nearby area, and by nearby he means "within viewing distance". Right now, he is standing near one of the cave walls, fingers running lightly over the images scratched into the stone. His other hand is resting against his thigh, tapping out an impatient rhythm as he moves systematically, scouring each picture. Michael wants to call him over, keep him away from the cold and the dark, but he looks so enamoured by what he sees that Michael can’t find the heart to do it.

"What do you think could have made this?" and there's a hint of reverence when he asks it.

Michael feels warmth blooming in his chest. Gavin is incredibly grown-up and child-like at the same time. His head of sandy-brown hair that stands out in different directions, those sea-green eyes that are always bright with emotion, that accent, thick and smooth and rich and deep that rolls around the emptiness and fills it up; anyone would have found him devastatingly handsome. And yet the way he carries himself, hunching in when Michael had said those things to him earlier on, his open-eyed wonder at anything and everything that moved ("What's that Michael?" "A bee." "And that?" "A leopard." "And _that_?" "A rhinoceros– geez Gavin how the hell do you point out all the 'not-friendly critters in less than a minute?") made him unbearably endearing.

Overall, Michael concludes that the mix of dashing good-looks and adorable personality in one Gavin Free is a killer combination.

"There used to be stories about the first people," he says as he places a pot of water on a makeshift stand he had fitted above the fire. "They didn't know how to speak, didn't know how to write, didn't have a society, didn't have a king. So in order to communicate they drew pictures, lots of them.” He looks up to find Gavin suddenly averting his gaze from him and bringing his eyes back to the pictures on the wall. "If you find the correct sequence of pictures and trace them properly you will probably be able to find some sort of story in there."

Gavin doesn't respond, just starts from the top-leftmost picture and begins running his fingers rightward, muttering to himself as he stares at the images, eyebrows furrowed in thought. Content that Gavin is occupied for now, Michael resumes his cooking, throwing in seasoning and small chunks of meat that Geoff had kindly left for them. They stay in companionable silence for awhile with Michael constantly glancing up to check that Gavin is within reach and still in viewing distance. When the stew is done, he looks up to call Gavin over, only to realise that in the mere seconds between the last time he looked up and right now, Gavin had wandered deep into the cave, the shadows and the walls hiding him from Michael's view. The panic seizes hold of his heart again.

“Gavin?” he calls from his place by the fire, willing away the worry nestled in the pit of his stomach. “Hey dinner’s ready!” But there’s no sound of footsteps or any answering reply.

He stands quickly, lighting a fire on a stray wooden stick and heading into the dark of the cave. The fire is the only thing that’s saving him, creating a bubble of protection against the shadows clawing at his feet. There isn't any noise save his footsteps against the dirt floor. Gavin couldn't have wandered too far in, so Michael quickens his pace and hopes he catches up soon; he doesn't want to think about what could possibly happen if Gavin finds something he shouldn't.

When he rounds the next bend, he begins to feel increasingly worried when he can't hear Gavin moving through the cave that has turned out to be an incredibly long tunnel. It's terrifying, and images of Gavin screaming as shadows from the walls wrap dark tendrils around him and pull him into the stone keep replaying in his head, causing him to walk faster; he needs to find Gavin before anything else finds him first. "I gotta find him," he says under his breath, breaking into a run. "Gotta find him before something happens. Gavin? Gavin holy fuck where the fuck are you–"

Rounding a particularly sharp bend, he sees Gavin, shaking and curled up on the floor. His initial anger evaporates when Gavin looks up at him and flinches, evidently waiting for Michael to say something about him getting lost. Michael slows his steps until he’s standing right next to the crouched form of Gavin without a word. The fire flickers in the damp of the tunnel, casting Gavin’s shadow along the stone and dirt walls, long and thin as it stretches out. There’s a torch holder on the tunnel wall that Michael places his makeshift torch into before slumping down into the spot beside him.

“Not going to yell at me?”

There’s a grumble when he says it, but it sounds like a retreat and the building of a wall as Michael slowly inches closer to him, trying to close the distance between them. He tentatively leans against Gavin, shoulder against shoulder, elbow pressing against elbow. He tenses up considerably at the contact, but Michael forces himself to remain relaxed, loose and calm, not moving, just waiting. There’s a beat of silence between them, and when it becomes apparent that Michael isn’t going to say anything, Gavin finally begins to loosen up next to him. There is a deep, melancholic sigh and Michael feels a weight on his shoulder, hair tickling the side of his face.

“I didn’t mean to get lost,” Michael hears as he sits straighter so that Gavin’s head isn’t angled too awkwardly against his shoulder. “But I walked too far in and the darkness crept up on me and then I couldn’t find my way out anymore.”

Gavin’s breath scoots over his shoulder and skids down his arm. Every intake of breath reverberates against Michael’s arm and throughout his body, each inhale and exhale skittering and echoing through the empty tunnel.

“It’s a lot like the tower at night you know,” Gavin continues, words now crawling along Michael’s shoulders and tingling down his spine. “When the windows were closed and I can’t see the stars. Geoff always forgot to give me torches in that place. So all I was left with every night was darkness. I got used to it, after the first year or two, but it never got easier.”

Michael takes the pause as a cue in to place his arm around Gavin, tugging him closer still, trying to shield him from the memories he’s beginning to lose himself in.

“I used to remind Geoff that I wanted, no, _needed_ lights in that place all the time at first but when he kept forgetting, I guess I just assumed that it was for the best. I got used to the darkness, embraced it, tried to befriend it, but it wouldn’t–” Michael pretends not to hear the way the words stick to his throat. “It wouldn’t get any better.”

The light by the torch is still flickering uncertainly behind them and Michael can see the stick shortening as they stay sitting in the silence of the tunnel. The stick’s almost half burnt out by this time and Michael can no longer feel his arm, but he find that he doesn’t care. Gavin isn’t saying anything anymore and Michael can’t find it in himself to break the silence and mutual understanding they had reached through this conversation. Instead, he lets the idea of Gavin stuck alone in a dark room, curled up on himself and shivering fill his head, hearing him try to talk to the darkness and asking it to be a little kinder.

Damn that fucking Geoff.

“We should probably leave before the stick burns out,” Michael says when it becomes apparent that the wooden branch isn’t going to get any longer, tugging his arm from behind Gavin and shaking it to get the blood flowing again. “And, man are you heavy.”

Gavin laughs a little at that, eyes glowing and a small grin on his face. “You know, normally when people tell other people their personal sad little stories, they become a little bit more sympathetic and less harsh on the person in general, not make jabs about their weight.”

“Yeah?” Michael replies, grimacing. He lifts the almost burnt out stick from the holder and rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “I– um. I’m not good with this kind of stuff, in case you haven’t noticed. Lindsay always did all the sympathetic, human things for me. Sorry if I’m not what you were hoping for.”

He begins walking away, refusing to turn and see the disappointment on Gavin’s face; fuck he is getting way too entangled in this whole thing. “I never said it was a bad thing.”

He stops. There is a moment where Michael swears he feels something crack at that statement. In a good or bad way, he’ll discern later. But for now, he just turns, sees Gavin standing where he had left him, a small smile on his face, and Michael can’t help but smile back in return. He watches the flames reflected in Gavin’s eyes, dancing and leaping and somersaulting, lighting up the green and setting the ocean on fire, and Michael is mesmerised. _And this, right here,_ his brain helpfully tells him, _is not what he’d signed up for._

The flames go out.

 

 

There had been a moment of blind panic, the darkness gripping his heart and squeezing his chest and just crushing him in its claws for a long, terrifying moment. It is only when Gavin says “Hello,” in a quiet whimper that Michael snaps out of his stupor and reaches out blindly for him.

“Gavin? Gav, hey,” and his fingers find a sleeve, and subsequently an arm that he wraps his hand around and holds onto, tight. “I’m not going anywhere without you, you hear me? We’re going to find our way out of this.”

Gavin doesn’t say anything, but Michael guesses that he nods or something because he feels Gavin’s fingers finding his and lacing them together firmly, before a warm body is pressed up behind his.

“Do you remember the direction of the turns you took to get in? We can trace it backwards and get out of here.”

There’s a moment of silence where Michael holds his breath and prays that Gavin _does_ remember because he’d been too panicky and worried when he rushed head-first into here and had forgotten to at least use some rope as a trail to get out of here. “I– I took a left to get here,” he stutters, and Michael can hear how short his breathing is, so he gives his hand a reassuring squeeze.

“That’s great Gavin, now, keep thinking and don’t let go of my hand okay?”

Again, no answer, but Michael feels the grip in his hand tighten in response. He reaches out and feels for a wall, sighing in relief when his palm came into contact with cool, smooth stone.

“Okay Gavin, I found a wall, and I’m going to make a right. Let me know if you remember anything else okay?”

They begin their progress, albeit terribly slowly, as Gavin continues murmuring to him (“I think it was a right, no left. Wait, there were like two simultaneous turns I guess?”) and Michael inwardly curses the tunnel for having so many twists and turns. When they reach another corner, Michael groans out loud, stopping their progress completely.

“Gavin, can you spread out, no don’t let go of my hand, just walk as far left as you can and stretch your hand out– yes can you feel anything?”

There is a moment of silence, and Michael is about to ask his question again when Gavin says “Yeah, there’s another exit over here,” confirming the worst of Michael’s fears.

“Any chance you’ll remember which one you came in from?” He doesn’t even need to see Gavin to know he’s shaking his head. “Fuck,” he curses silently instead, pulling Gavin back toward him. “Wanna make a guess?”

“Umm–“

A loud rumble explodes from behind them and Michael suddenly feels Gavin go completely rigid under his hand.

“Gavin?”

“He’s here,” and it’s barely a whisper, but it sends chills down Michael’s spine and fills him with cold dread.

“Who’s here Gavin?” but he feels how Gavin’s hand is suddenly wet with cold sweat, fingernails digging painfully into his skin. He won’t be expecting anymore answers from Gavin. “Quickly, right or left?” he asks as another rumble sounds behind them, causing Gavin to grip Michael’s hand tighter still, and he’s pretty sure that those nails are breaking skin. Going along with instinct, he pulls Gavin to the exit closer to them and with one hand, palm flat against the wall and the other still locked in Gavin’s death hold, he begins sprinting along the dark tunnel, turning another corner.

He hears a loud sound behind them, like the air is being sucked out of the area, and suddenly he feels like he’s being pulled back into the darkness of the tunnel. Gavin has two hands gripping him now, shaking and terrified, and Michael begins to panic in earnest this time, but his right hand leaves the wall long enough to draw his sword from his belt (and thank goodness he always brought his sword with him wherever he goes) and plants it firmly into the ground, using it as a hook to keep them from flying backwards.

“Gavin!” he yells through the wind rushing past them. There isn’t any response, but Michael tightens his grip on Gavin’s hands all the same. “Don’t let go of my hand okay!”

And he begins pulling them out, looking up to see some light making its way into the tunnel a short distance ahead. Thank goodness for small miracles. With each step he takes however, the winds get stronger, and more insistent, until the both of them can barely keep their feet on the floor.

“Michael!” he hears Gavin scream, a cry for help that sets Michael on edge, pushes him to the limit and gets the adrenaline coursing through him in waves. He knows Gavin is no longer on the ground, can feel it from the way he’s clawing at Michael’s arm, hands trying to find some purchase on his chain mail. The only reason why Michael isn’t flying is because of his armour (another small miracle) and he wraps his hand around Gavin’s arm, trying to tug him close.

“Don’t let go Gavin!” he yells again, then turns to face the darkness of the tunnel full in the face and screams, “You’ll never get us!”

With strength he didn’t even know he still had, he grips Gavin firmly and pulls himself forward, just far enough to lift Gavin against the wind and push him around the corner where the wind and the darkness can’t touch him. The last he sees is brown hair and green eyes wide with fear as he forces him behind the tunnel wall and into the pale moonlight, yelling a final “Stay there!” as his free hand goes back to gripping his sword. His arms are beginning to ache from exhaustion, but he pushes forward anyway, one step, two step, three, and he grips the edge of the wall, throwing his sword blindly to the other side. He can’t resist, so he turns once more, facing the darkness head on, and puts on his best glower. “Fuck you!” and he pushes himself around the corner, the pale white light casting an eerie glow on everything and Michael glances wildly around before his eyes finally settle on Gavin, shaking and pale and curled up with his knees to his chest. Michael can’t hear anything above the roaring of the blood in his veins, and he desperately sucks in air, heaving it in like a man dying of thirst would do when given a bucket of water.

His sword is lying a few feet in front of him, and he reaches forward to pick it up. A cold chill catches him then, and he turns to see a pair of bottomless eyes staring back at him from where no light can touch it. “I will have you,” it whispers and then vanishes, and Michael can’t help the shiver that wrecks his body, because those four words are not a threat; they are a promise.

The tunnel goes eerily silent after that, and Michael collapses back against the wall again, desperately fighting off the bile rising in his throat. It doesn’t help that Gavin vomits first, his back to Michael. The smell is inescapable though, and Michael promptly throws up angled away from Gavin, hoping his own bout of sickness won’t prompt another from him. It doesn’t, and Michael ends up mindlessly gripping and re-gripping the handle of his sword, his own thoughts far away. _What the fuck was that?_ is the only thing that seems to blare out red and white in his thoughts, accompanied with trumpets and everything.

Gavin is blessedly silent next to him, Michael doesn’t think he can take much of his rambling now if he decides to do it, but this makes him plenty worried at the same time. When he finally catches his breath which has slowed to no more than the occasional stutter, he asks, “You okay?”

There’s a weak chuckle, and a shaking hand comes up to run through his hair. “I stayed when you asked me to this time.”

Michael huffs a small laugh at that, and realises his own hands are shaking as well. “And you didn’t let go too. How fucking awesome is that?”

He grins shakily as he says that, turning to Gavin and reaching out to him. Gavin meets him halfway, leaning into his touch, and lets Michael pet him down to check for any injuries. They end up with their foreheads pressed together, breathing heavily after the encounter, Michael finding comfort in the contact.

“Michael?”

“Hmm?”

“Let’s never do that again.”

And through the small laugh that escapes his mouth, he hears the _thank you for not letting me go too_.

 

 

When they finally leave that terri-fucking-fying cave-tunnel-thing, they come out into the open to find that it’s dawn, and the sun is just breaking through the horizon, painting the sky the most beautiful colours; Michael guesses from the way Gavin is gaping that he has never seen a sunrise before. They also come out to find that this is the wrong exit. The tunnel had opened into an empty clearing. At first, Michael entertained the thought that maybe a group of thieves had stolen their horses and supplies, but after a thorough check of the surrounding area, he didn’t find any footprints or any proof that anyone had been here to begin with.

“We can go back into the tunnel and find the other exit,” Gavin tries, and Michael knows he looks terrible right now, all anger and frustration and stress and terror, so he hides his head in his hands and hopes Gavin can’t tell that he’s a little lost and fucking scared right now.

“We can’t go back in there,” he finally says. “That _thing_ will be waiting for us.”

He doesn’t need to look up to know that Gavin shivers when he mentions it, hears it in the way his breath catches and he desperately tries to yank it back and shove it down his throat.

“What is that thing anyway?”

Michael looks up to find Gavin staring guiltily at the floor, eyebrows furrowed and expression pinched; he clearly doesn’t want to talk about it at all but Michael _needs_ for Gavin to tell him what that thing was. It could save their lives if he knows what they’re up against.

He doesn’t push, just waits it out and watches the sunrise in the distance, a welcomed warm glow that envelopes them and comforts them after that horrifying experience. “I don’t know,” and it’s a whisper that Michael would’ve missed if it isn’t for the complete silence of the forest. “I’ve met it, before, but I don’t know what it is.” Which made this fucking thing ten times more terrifying thankyouverymuch.

With a sigh, shoulders slumping in defeat, he runs their next options through his head: go back into the tunnel and find the other exit, or walk aimlessly around and hope they find their original campsite by some strange miracle. Neither sound particularly appealing. He tells Gavin so.

Worrying his lower lip between his teeth, Gavin sits on the floor next to Michael. “We could start by finding a lake couldn’t we?”

And it’s so simple and so brilliant that Michael doesn’t know what to say, just clears his throat and pretends to consider it for awhile. “We could,” he finally affirms, standing and looking around for something they can use to mark the way they came from; he knows that without water he wouldn’t last more than three days, Gavin likely less. “And we could probably go hunting after that. I’ll make you a simple sword and teach you some basic manoeuvres–”

“I’m better with a bow,” Gavin says from somewhere behind him. “And what are you looking for– ooh look I found berries!”

He turns to find Gavin holding a stem of small, red berries that are way too fucking bright and innocent looking to be anything but harmful.

Taking two steps forward he rips the branch out of Gavin’s grip and squashes the berries in his hands when Gavin lets out an indignant squawk. “Those were mine Michael!”

“And they were fucking poisonous so I’ll appreciate if you stay further away from them,” he grits out, smearing the juice on a nearby wall. “Where’d you find them?”

“By the entrance,” he gestures, and Michael quickly picks a few more stalks of the berry.

“Too poisonous to eat, but enough to mark a trail. We’ll be able to find our way back if we need to.”

Gavin is still sulking somewhere behind him, and he hears a grumpy “Of course I knew they were poisonous, no need to huff at me,” which causes him snort in derision.

“Sure you did.”

Trying hard to ignore any other comments that Gavin might have, Michael begins systematically packing the berries into a small pouch that is tied to his belt. “Contrary to what you seem adamant on believing, I’m actually quite the handyman, plus I know how to handle a bow and arrow; of course much better than a sword. I’m also pretty good at building things from scratch. If you had bothered to actually _take a look_ at my room in the tower instead of turning over every piece of furniture in that bloody area looking for someone who doesn’t exist,” and Michael merely raises an eyebrow at that, “You would have noticed the large amount of inventions I created from the spare wood Geoff helped me pick up. Occasionally, I get pieces of rock or iron to add to the machinery.”

“Then you probably should have brought that bow along with you shithead,” Michael retorts, tossing a few spare branches at Gavin’s feet. “Start working, we’ll get back on the road tomorrow, first thing in the morning. I’ll go hunting, and you will _stay here_.”

Gavin grimaces at the tone he uses, but Michael just continues picking up a few pieces of stone and bring them over to where he’s standing. “These aren’t even the right kind of wood!” Gavin just exclaims, snapping a branch. Michael doesn’t even look up, pretending to be busy moving small slabs of rock from nearby, when he hears him mumble, “No guarantee I’ll follow instructions this time.”

“Then I’ll continue to huff at you,” Michael replies, still not looking up, as he shifts the last stone piece into place. He narrows his eyes dangerously at Gavin when he finally does straighten up. “And remember, if anything attacks you, try to follow the trail I’m leaving behind. I won’t travel too far off.”

He waits for the nod of acknowledgement, hand instinctively going to the hilt of his sword. They share a moment of complete silence when memories of what happened in the tunnel flash unbidden in their mind, Gavin furrowing his eyebrows in obvious distress. Michael wants to reach out to him, maybe squeeze his shoulder or say something nice before he goes, but he chooses to clear his throat instead, turning around and clenching his hands into fists, trying to stop them from shaking. Wouldn’t do to alert every animal out in the forest that he’s coming through.

“Stay safe,” and that’s all he lets himself say before taking off. Only when he’s hidden in the thick foliage does he allow himself to turn around and watch as Gavin’s shoulders slump, before he shakes his head and picks up the first piece of wood.

He doesn’t think too much about why that breaks his heart a little.

 

 

Gavin has a fire started by the time he returns (bless that boy) and an array of items scattered at his feet, a bow and multiple arrows amongst the stuff. “Uh, hey,” he starts, carefully treading over the various things on the floor. On closer inspection, Gavin had managed to carve out bowls and a very crude spoon, but it is more than enough to get by with. “I caught a wild boar and managed to get some water from a nearby river. Fucking alligators made it difficult for me to get more though. This will have to do tonight,” and he sets down an old pail half-filled with water, picking up a bowl and scooping some out for Gavin to drink.

“You made that?” Gavin’s eyes go wide with disbelief, and rightly so.

“No, its previous owner left it by the side of the river,” and Gavin gives him an unimpressed look. “By the looks of the skeleton hand caught in the handle of the pail when I found it, he was probably eaten by the alligators.”

His eyes go wide with disbelief again. “I need to see one of those.”

“What,” he deadpans, picking up the boar and using his sword to carefully skin it. “So you can create a vicious critter following? Complete with rattlesnakes and alligators? Maybe throw in a few tarantulas for good measure?”

Gavin sticks out his tongue at his comment and continues sharpening a small piece of rock and then fixing it to the head of a wooden shaft. “At least I didn’t wander away again.”

“Wow,” Michael rolls his eyes. “Want me to reward you for that? Give you a prize or something?”

A lewd look forms on Gavin’s features and he raises his eyebrows. “Can you _really_ give me whatever I ask for?”

Heat creeps up Michael’s face. Again with the innuendos, the idiot seems bent on making his life miserable. At least he no longer looks utterly terrified. “Shut up asshole,” Michael bites back although it lacks venom, throwing more wood into the fire.

A beat later, Gavin suddenly cries out, “That was a spoon I made you git!”

They soon fall back to working in silence, _comfortable_ silence this time, the only sounds between them being the scrapping of rocks against each other and the cackling of the fire. He continues watching Gavin out of the corner of his eye, sees the way he bites his lip in frustration as he works on sharpening another arrow head, grunting to himself once too often.

And it’s absolutely adorable. (He doesn’t even mind the “Oh fuck” after thought that always comes with that statement.)

When the boar is properly skinned and roasting happily over the fire, Michael turning it slowly over the flames, he finally decides to break the silence.

“How did you get yourself into that tower in the first place?”

There is a pause in Gavin’s movements, a slight twitching in his fingers, the muscles in his hand jumping as he tightens and loosens his grip on the stone beneath his palm. Michael has seen it often enough to know that he’s stressed out and worried about something. Observes it for so long that he only hears a distinct mumble as an answer.

“What did you say?”

Gavin sighs, his whole body heaving with the movement. Embarrassment then. “I said, you’ll laugh at me.”

“No I won’t,” Michael retorts. “Not unless it’s stupid. Then it’ll make for a good joke.”

He sticks out his tongue again. Idiot. “Geoff found me in the stable when I was nine. I was unhappy in the palace, and I had been trying to fix a saddle over one of my fa– _the king’s_ ,” Michael doesn’t comment on the change of words, “Horses. Back then, Geoff was the king’s wizard, looked into the future for him and everything, made his every whim and fancy come true. He told me, when I was nine years old, that he saw something he knew the king wouldn’t like, and it had to do with me.”

Gavin had stopped working by this time, hand stilling on the stone, just staring at the flames lighting up the rapidly darkening sky.

“So he warned me about it, but of course I didn’t understand. And then I turned ten and my fa–the king began looking for suitors for me. Ladies of the highest rank in the village, daughters of neighbouring lords and kings. He wanted to use me as a pawn in his greater plan for diplomacy. I refused of course. I was only ten, I definitely wasn’t interested in getting married or having to hold hands with random girls I didn’t even know. I had a friend, the stable boy, Dan, who played with me often and I told him what the king was trying to do, match-make me with these people. He was older, asked me if it may have been because girls weren’t really what I wanted.”

The fire is fully reflected in his eyes, and Michael can’t help but watch, enthralled, as they dance in the specks of olive and brown-green, like a forest quickly catching on fire, wild and untameable.

“I didn’t understand what he meant, so he kissed me,” and he swallows here, tongue poking out to run over his lips, as though feeling them straight after that boy had kissed him. Not for the first time, Michael suddenly wonders what it’ll be like to kiss Gavin. “And I was too young to know back then, know that I liked it,” and his eyes flicker briefly to meet Michael’s gaze once, “But my father,” he grits his teeth and shakes his head at the slip up again, “ _The king_ found out about it and Dan disappeared. I’m old enough now to know what he must have done,” his eyes take on that faraway look again, “And I’m sure he would have executed me too, if it had not been for Geoff. He asked me if I wanted to go somewhere to play, get away from the castle and all that marriage nonsense. Of course I said yes, I was being cooped up in that place my entire life, never saw the world beyond those walls. So he snuck me out in the middle of the night and brought me to the old tower, let me climb to the top, and when I got there, I heard a loud rumbling from below and looked out my window to see a huge dragon and I knew there was going to be no way out of there after that. The beast guarded my tower for fifteen full years, with the occasional visit from Geoff, and then you came along and saved me.”

Michael belatedly realises he had been holding his breath the whole time, and slowly lets it out, staring at the wild boar that is almost done. “The dragon isn’t real you know,” he says when Gavin had gathered his wits and begins sharpening the stone again.

“What do you mean wasn’t real?” he asks, the stone abruptly stilling.

“It was Geoff all along, he turned into a fucking dragon thing to try and get knights to save you from the tower. Knew you were into boys, so he called you a princess and everything,” Michael continues, pulling the boar off the fire and slowing cutting out the meat. “Fooled us all into thinking you were a girl.”

Gavin accepts a bowl of freshly cooked meat with eager hands, nostrils flaring at the smell of freshly roasted meat. “Thanks Michael, it smells delicious!” and for one moment, Michael thinks he might not have heard it. But then, “It’s not _that_ bad that I’m not actually a girl right?”

When Michael looks up, he sees honest to god worried expression on Gavin’s features, making him want to laugh and tell him that if it’s _that bad_ he would have just left him in the tower, left him for the rattlesnake to kill, left him for the tunnel to swallow him whole, left him to eat the berries. But instead, he laughs and reaches over to ruffle Gavin’s hair, ignoring how the responding grin makes his stomach do flips and thinks it must be the meat instead.

(At night, he watches the back of Gavin’s head and stays awake for as long as possible, listening for any sounds from the tunnel. But the light rise and fall of Gavin’s form soon lulls him to sleep, the last image of bright orange consuming a forest playing behind his eyelids as he slips into unconsciousness.

He hasn’t had this good a night’s sleep in ages.)

 

 

The first day of travelling is always the hardest. After a good rest the body always takes a long time to pull itself together again, restart its engine and get everything working and moving. Michael wakes with everything hurting in general from the overuse and exhaustion of the past few days. Gavin looks less worse for the wear, but he can still tell he’s still exhausted from their ordeal yesterday; it was a wonder they had been able to sleep without any nightmares after what happened.

“Ready to start moving?” he asks when Gavin is fully awake and has gotten all his bearings. The sun is already up, and Michael can see Gavin blinking sleepily at his surroundings, taking in the trees and the charred firewood, all his stuff still scattered all over the floor. “You’ve gotta pack up all your shit though, I have no idea how we’re supposed to carry all that stuff.”

He watches Gavin slowly stumble toward the mess of wooden things on the floor and begin picking at them, separating them into two piles. When he’s satisfied that Gavin is once again appropriately busy and not likely to run off, he starts packing the spare meat and anything else they will probably need for the next few days. The pail of water is almost empty by now, so he pours out the last bit of it into one of the bowls (that honestly looks like half a coconut shell) and takes a small sip from it before passing the rest to Gavin.

“You splitting it into what’s gotta go and and what we’re going to keep?” he asks, toeing one of the wooden spoons.

“No,” he says, snatching the spoon and sticking his tongue out at Michael. “I’m splitting them into what you’re carrying and what I’m carrying,” chucking the empty bowl into the noticeably bigger pile.

“Are you being fucking serious right now?” he groans. “And I suppose the larger one is mine.”

“Course it is Michael!” he says all too cheerily, slotting various spoons and bowls into the thousand-and-one fucking pockets that have mysteriously appeared on his clothing (he doesn’t want to think about where the spoons stuffed into the front of Gavin’s pants goes). He picks up the bow and arrows, frowning at them as he weighs them between his hands. “What am I going to do with them Michael?”

Gavin’s looking at him, pouting in a you’ve-got-to-help-me-I’m-a-kicked-puppy way. Michael sighs, resigned to his fate. They should have told him he would be stuck looking after a twelve-year-old, maybe add that on the already long list of goddamned criteria, right below _brave_ and _chivalrous_. Should have asked for baby-sitters instead of fucking knights. Ripping out the cloth at the bottom of his shirt, he loops the cloth around the arrows twice, slinging one end through the bow and tying it off in a loose knot.

“Lift your arm up,” he says, slotting the makeshift sling over his outstretched arm and head. “You look like a hunter now,” he smiles, a small quirk of his lips, when it is firmly in place, Gavin’s hand immediately going to clutch the cloth across his chest.

“Thanks Michael!” he practically yells and Michael flinches at the noise when Gavin throws himself at him again, nearly knocking him off-balance. An armful of skinny and gangly is never going to get any easier. “This is perfect!” he announces to the forest, fist-pumping the air and pulling on the cloth. “You’re the best,” and he’s looking at him, eyes bright and that stupid goofy grin on face.

Michael can feel his face heating up, embarrassment painting his skin a bright red hue, so he turns and clears his throat loudly before just starting off into the forest. He counts his steps, one two three four five, when he hears a loud thump and heavy footsteps echoing through the forest after him. “Michael! You forgot your stuff!”

“Just– jesus Gavin, just leave them the fuck behind!” he sighs when Gavin bumps into his back, dropping a few bowls (and is that a pot?) in the process.

“But Michael–”

“Don’t–”

“Michael!”

“Gavin stop–”

“Michael,” and he’s up in his face again, lower lip sticking out and trembling. “Michael I spent all of yesterday making these! While you were wrestling alligators and smearing berries on trees I was doing something useful! And I even stayed when you asked me to!”

It hurts his head, the whining and the pouting and the I-want-to-be-in-your-face thing, and Michael feels a headache blooming behind his eyelids. “But we don’t need these Gavin,” he starts, slowly, talking to him the way he would talk to a child. “It’ll just slow us down and make it harder for me to protect you if anything happens.”

Gavin furrows his eyebrows when he says that, like he’s carefully weighing the pros and cons of the whole situation. There aren’t many pros though, the main one being Gavin’s work from yesterday wouldn’t be wasted. But judging by the whole wasted work versus personal safety, he’s pretty sure Gavin will just drop all the things in his hand on the floor, pout a lot more and shuffle after him the rest of the way, grumbling a lot about how yesterday was a “whole lot of bull and wasted time”.

“You know what Michael,” Gavin finally replies, mouth set in a determined line. “You’re right.” Michael visibly relaxes at that. “But we’re still bringing this anyway. I’ll keep a couple of the items, you will keep a minimum amount of stuff so that it won’t hinder your movement or anything, and we’ll be just fine.”

So much for the need for self-preservation. “Fuck you Gavin,” and he storms away, ignoring the protests from behind. He’ll follow soon enough.

After much whinging and whining and Gavin chasing after him with multiple wounded looks, _still_ holding those stupid things in his arms (he had raced after Michael with those things nestled against his chest, clanging against each other for a whole minute), he finally gives up and begins scattering them across the forest floor when he tells Michael that “My arms are beginning to ache”.

“A wooden spoon here,” Michael hears him whisper some distance behind him. “A bloody good fork, a perfectly usable bowl,” he mourns quietly. “Hopefully the animals here are a lot less barbaric than the person I’m travelling with. Maybe they’ll at least find these remotely useful and _appreciate_ it for a change.” He can literally feel Gavin’s glare burning holes into his back so he lets out an annoyed huff.

“Shut up Gavin. Animals don’t use fucking utensils to eat,” and there goes another spoon and another plate as Gavin lets out a soft, pained, wail. “And how many of these goddamned things did you make!” he cries out in exasperation, dodging a bowl that goes flying over his head.

There is a small gasp. “You really are a barbarian,” Gavin accuses, smacking Michael fiercely on the back. “We use three forks and two spoons when we dine back at the castle!”

Michael raises his eyebrows as another fork goes flying and bounces off his head. “For two people?”

“Per person you toss pot!” and he chucks another spoon at his face.

“You made way more than four spoons,” Michael points out, no longer in the mood to carry on this conversation.

“Well we couldn’t possibly use the same utensils all the time could we,” Gavin bites back, dumping the remaining utensils over his head and storming past him. The pounding in his head is just getting louder and Michael just really wants to curl up under a rock and sleep right now. He is in no mood to deal with this bullshit.

Keeping a safe distance between them, lest Gavin throws another fit and starts hurling arrows and rocks at him, he looks out for the marks he made yesterday, tracing them back to the river. They’ll start by getting some water and then doing a little bit of hunting while surveying the surrounding area for a bit, set up camp somewhere and rest for the night; with the rate they’re going and the energy both he and Gavin are wasting getting annoyed and mad at each other, they’ll probably burn out before sunset.

Gavin makes a left between a thicket and Michael just sighs, loudly and stops. “We’re taking a right here Gavin.”

He sticks his head out from between the branches and hisses at Michael, “I knew that,” and begins storming in that direction, growling under his breath.

They travel in silence a long while after, the only sounds between them the leaves crunching underfoot and the distant trilling of birds. Sunlight is streaming through the thick canopy overhead, catching on Gavin’s hair a few feet ahead of him. Watching him attempt to storm angrily just makes Michael even more amused; the kid has definitely proven himself to be a princess through and through, always behaving all diva-like and shit. But despite the exasperation and feeling as though he’s at his wit’s end when dealing with Gavin, there is a moment where Michael suddenly realises that seeing Gavin prance around, prodding at trees and kicking shrubs is oddly comforting and makes him feel calmer inside. Which doesn’t make a single ounce of fucking sense.

(But then again, it is _Gavin_ , so he figures that all those contradicting feelings sort of made sense when it comes to dealing with him.)

 

 

The sun is high in the sky when they finally reach the river. All earlier resentment in Gavin has thankfully, vanished, only to be replaced by awe and wonder as he stares down into the clear water. There is a slight ripple on the surface of the lake, and Michael quickly pulls Gavin back, drawing his sword and thumping the flat side of his blade on the snout of the alligator that emerges from nowhere, yellow teeth bared in defiance.

“Michael!” Gavin belatedly yells when the animal retreats back into the water, eyes vanishing beneath the glassy surface. “What was that?”

“An alligator you retard,” Michael grits out. “Stay further away from the water’s edge.”

To his surprise, Gavin is pale and tremblingfrom the encounter, fingers digging into Michael’s biceps tight and painfully so. “That was the most terrifying creature ever!”

“Well, then wait till you meet a shark,” Michael scoffs, picking up the bucket and scooping up some water. He takes a swig straight from the pail and offers it to Gavin, who stares at him with disdain.

“You’re awfully unhygienic; it’s unbecoming of a knight in the kingdom to behave as such.”

“Yeah, well, I’m sorry that I’m all you’ve got, deal with it,” Michael retorts, chucking the pail on the floor. He sits on the riverbank, hand still firmly gripping the hilt of his sword in case any other alligators get the wrong idea and try to attack them. A moment later, Gavin is sitting next to him, close but not quite touching, holding the pail between his hands.

“How did you become a knight of the king’s castle Michael?”

The way he says it is quiet, like he isn’t expecting an answer of any kind, says it in a way that will let Michael get away with a “I didn’t hear you back then,” if they ever bring it up in the future. And yeah, Michael may be a knight and everything, but he really is a fucking coward first and foremost; and right now, he really wants to run and hide, because this isn’t his forte. He isn’t Mr. Sentimental, or Mr. Let’s-Talk-About-Our-Feelings, he survives on being hard-edged and dangerous and angry all the time, but Gavin’s been making it hard to keep those walls up; he’s single-handedly stripped down the barriers that he had taken years to build, that Lindsay, who’s known him _forever_ , has tried to tear down and failed, time and again. It makes it worse that Gavin, who he has known for less than three days, is _breaking_ Michael apart, peeling him open slowly, layer by layer, without so much as breaking a sweat.

This makes Michael want to rage, wants to scream and yell and _be angry_ about it. Because this shit isn’t right. People don’t just saunter into your life and tear you down and examine you under a microscope, pick you apart and leave you raw and bleeding for the whole world to see.

Thankfully, he doesn’t have to say anything, because Gavin keeps talking. “I remember that the king said he always picks orphans to be knights of the castle because they aren’t as torn up by loss as other people are. The death of their parents makes them stronger, more invincible and less susceptible to loss,” Michael catches the quick glance Gavin throws his way out of the corner of his eye, hands going to fiddle with the bucket of water again.

“I guess,” Michael tries, voice sticking to his throat. He clears it awkwardly once, and then attempts to finish what Gavin is trying to say. “They say the anger we harbour about our parents death makes us stronger too, is the fuel to the fire we feel when we’re fighting, makes us deadlier,” he blandly intones, remembering all the things his instructor had said as he circled Michael with a sword in his hand.

Gavin nods in agreement. “Apparently the fact that the kingdom is one of the first things knights are forced to form an attachment to makes them overtly protective of the castle and the king, makes them loyal to the country to the point of death. _An orphan’s loyalty is fierce and dangerous_ the king told me once, that’s why they chose people like you.”

 

 

The grass around them gently bows in the winds, tickling his elbows and the bend beneath his knees, constantly shifting and changing in the light breeze. Michael remembers being in a similar place once when he was young, too young to leave the orphanage but old enough to know and hold on to grief and bitterness. His parents had been reduced to a quickly fading shadow in his mind, a constant presence that haunts his nights but is no longer physically present in the daytime; their features blurring into _nothing_ as he grows older and begins to forget. He had been sitting atop a small hill, a little way behind the orphanage, letting the rustling grass around him, beneath his bare palms and soles, lull his mind into a state of emptiness. Below him the forest stretches out for miles, varying shades of green shifting and changing in the sun light, like an ocean with rolling waves that go on forever and ever.

(He is later thankful that emptying his mind is close to second nature to him, for when his arms are aching and there is blood caking his lip, he finds it easy to detach his mind from his body and _pushpushpush_ that little bit more, swinging his sword down in a perfect arc that slices through the air and flesh and bone.)

The sound of hooves against gravel snaps him out of his reprieve, and he counts the seconds, _onetwothreefourfive_ , until Mother is calling for him, her voice riding the breeze that ruffles his hair and circles him, stirring the grass awake beneath his bare feet. He stares down the other side of the hill with his name “Michael!” a drone in the backdrop, wonders momentarily what it’d be like to take a step forward and take a tumble down the hill. He’ll stand up when he reaches bottom, brush himself off and vanish into the thick of the forest that stretches out for miles. Trees that climb higher and higher as though they’re all reaching for the sky, their leaves rustling as the wind picks up and carries more voices his way, a loud applause from the forest as a huge hand closes around his wrist.

“It’s time to go.”

The moment is lost, but he doesn’t take his eyes off the expanse of green that fills his vision and stays behind his eyelids long after, stares out the window of the horse drawn carriage and tries to swallow the fear that tries to bubble out from his mouth. He’s vaguely aware of his friend, Ray, waving frantically from behind Mother, yelling words at him, but they are blown away by the wind and all he sees are lips moving and forming shapes as his arms reach outoutout but Michael is being pulled too far back and too far away. A door clicks somewhere and everything becomes muted. There’s no wind, no noise, just silence and the loud ringing in his ears and the soft, barely-there breaths of the other children in the carriage.

Michael holds his breath the whole way to the castle.

When he’s handed a sword for the first time, he drops it. It’s too heavy, too cumbersome, too sharp, and he promptly slices his finger on its blade. His friends from the orphanage look terrified but he just puts his finger in his mouth and lets the copper taste fill his mouth. The teacher, Gus he said, looks impressed, but only a little, and immediately orders everyone off to lunch “Except for you.”

Michael is unsteady on his feet as everyone begins filing out around him, the room abruptly emptying, the screeching rings

“Spar with me.”

He swings blindly, the huge sword barely lifting off the ground as he tries to move forward. But with each effort it takes to lift the blade, it falls back into the sand even heavier in his hands than before, a loud thump as Gus deftly dodges and parries each blow. This leaves Michael panting and completely vulnerable when he lunges forward and the edge of his sword nicks his arm. Michael is too exhausted to notice, raises his hands in surrender and tells Gus that he gives up.

“You don’t _get_ to give up.”

And Gus is lunging too close too fast, making Michael swing his sword up in self-defence. Both swords end up clattering to the floor.

“We’re done for today.”

 

 

“Sorola was always a monster,” Gavin chuckles softly.

Michael doesn’t hear him, lets out a long sigh as his thoughts drift and float through the air, picking up small fragments of forgotten memories (intentionally or not) and unsettling the sand that has lain stagnant in his mind for a long long time.

Everything comes back to him so easily, as though he is merely recalling an incident that happened yesterday instead of something that occurred a lifetime ago. The bright images twist and turn and morph into darker ones and he smells sweat and blood and tears from the stains in his clothes as they ask him to push harder, faster, fiercer. “You’re not a fucking bitch,” the voices chant, “Don’t act like one,” as blood pours from the blade of his sword and there are the howls of wolves in the distance. The forest detests him, branches looming high and dark and cutting the moonlight like knives as he keeps hacking, more blood staining his fingertips, the coppery taste lathers on his tongue and fills his nostrils. The rains come and washes the blood into the soil, tries to bury what they’d witness between its roots, tries to cleanse Michael of his sins, but the red is still there, still bright and luminous, refuses to be washed away and forgotten like everything else is. There might be blood in his hair but he can’t tell, not when his hair is spread out like a halo in the darkening forest, blood red locks that surround him and make him look like an angel of death.

(Gus doesn’t say anything about the bodies lying around him or the dilation of his pupils or the quiver in his hands, doesn’t comment on the feral grin that stretches across his features as a noise escapes from between his lips, halfway between a laugh and a cry. He pries the sword from between his grasp and grips his shoulder tight, steering him through the trees and into the bright bright dawn of the next morning, whispers into his ear as he walks past that he’s ready, “You’re ready. You will serve his majesty well.”)

Slender fingers wrap around his wrists, leaving scorching marks where skin meets skin. Michael jumps back, burnt, expression momentarily wild as his hand goes to the hilt of his sword.

The only thing he sees is Gavin, eyes wide, staring up at him with this apologetic-hurt look that Michael turns his back on too-soon and too-quickly. “I think it’s time to go.”

There is a moment in-between where Michael can _feel_ Gavin reaching out to him, the words _I’m sorry_ on the tip of his tongue, but Michael starts walking away before he can say anything and waits for the quiet shuffling noises of Gavin hurrying after him before picking up his pace again. The forest around them falls silent, the cicadas halting their call as a chilling wind sweeps through the trees. But the leaves don’t make a sound, and Michael is painfully aware of the loud snapping of twigs beneath his feet and the silent chasm that yawns between them, dark and foreboding and getting wider with each step he takes ahead of Gavin.

“Michael, Michael wait–”

“No Gavin, we’ve wasted too much fucking time just sitting around doing nothing, just staring into blank space and getting lost in fucking tunnels we shouldn’t even have been inside of and sitting around talking about goddamned feelings that shouldn’t even matter!”

He’s flushed, he’s furious, he’s shaking, he’s _raw_ from all the things uncovered and the wound that had barely scabbed over being peeled open again. It hurts, like a fucking knife wound to his chest (and holy fuck he knows how much that hurts), leaving him gasping for air and making tears cloud his vision from the pain. He never talks about it; he shouldn’t have. Gavin is a couple of steps away from him, stance defensive and Michael matches his gaze, refuses to back down in face of danger, because Gavin’s eyes are blazing, wild and fierce, all fire and green green ocean and forest and life as the sun catches on the speckles of olive in his pupils.

“Michael.”

He doesn’t know how Gavin does it, but it’s a command, all the royal blood running in his veins making itself known through a single word, makes Michael freeze up and halts the thoughts running a mile a minute through his head. _I shouldn’t have told him. What have I done? I’m a monster._ And Michael feels himself falling falling falling, as the sun streams in through the leaves, and hears the loud ringing in his ears again. Sees Gus watching his every move and Geoff smiling at him with sharpened teeth and slitted eyes (watching him, judging him) as Gavin’s hand finds his and laces their fingers together.

The forest inhales. One, two, three.

Its exhalation is muted from the roaring of blood in his ears when their lips meet.

 

 

The evening is blissfully comfortable. Michael is carefully turned away from Gavin, arms crossed as he breathes in the mossy scent of the forest floor. Behind him Gavin is already asleep, breath steady, tickling the small hairs on Michael’s neck. A few feet away, the last ambers from the fire they made earlier are slowly dying out, the smoke barely illuminated by the bright hot red that still glows from within the wood. It’s oddly soothing, given everything that has gone down, with Michael’s head still reeling from the turn of today’s events. The forest has gone back to being alive, leaves rustling and insects calling in the night sky, soft trilling that crawls down his spine and makes him feel restless.

The kiss had been nice, soft and gentle, although it had been far from perfect. Gavin’s nose had been in the way (Michael refuses to think that it had been his fault, Gavin’s nose is, after all, fucking _huge_ ), but they had stubbornly pushed forward anyway, Michael tilting his head a little so that their lips would fit together. He had kissed Lindsay once upon a time, but if anyone asks them, they always say that it had been completely platonic and done for thrills. (Except Michael had had a huge crush on Lindsay back then and tried to kiss her as a show of his affections, hoping she’d return them. But he was sorely disappointed by the kiss, because although Lindsay smelled nice and was soft against his lips, it felt weird, like  _fucking_ weird, and she pulls away just as Michael’s withdrawing, both their expressions puzzled and a little disgusted.

“Let’s never speak of this again,” she says, the corners of her mouth pulling downward.

Michael nods fervently. “Yep.”)

But kissing Gavin had been nice, a little awkward but nice nonetheless, Gavin moving against him, kisses made entirely of fire and water, burning him and soothing the scorch marks left on his lips. Michael had wanted moremoremore, but the sun was going down and he didn’t want them to be stuck somewhere without shelter and beds for the night. Plus they needed food and a bit of water, so he lets the rational part of his brain take over as he pulls away. He doesn’t glare at Gavin, doesn’t say anything mean or angry to him. Gavin is looking at him earnestly, expression hopeful and _right there_ , ever-so-slightly worried. Michael’s tongue is tied, and he doesn’t talk about feelings and shit, so he tells Gavin that they need to “settle in for the night”.

His expression falls then, but Michael picks Gavin’s hand up and gives it a squeeze.

Gavin looks between his expression and their joined hands, before a wide grin spreads across his face and Michael is incredibly thankful that Gavin can read him well enough. Just thinking about the events of earlier today makes the restlessness spread throughout him, unsettling him but not in a bad way. Mostly, it just makes him want to toss and turn and think about it and blush and giggle to himself (and fuck if that isn’t the gayest fucking thing in the world). Gavin is making him into a sap. He breathes in deeply through his nose, and calms the quickening heartbeats that are jostling his ribs with each beat, closes his eyes and tries to slow the thoughts churning in his head.

He wants to turn, maybe shift a little and lie on his back, so that he can feel the starlight streaming between the branches on his eyelids.

But Gavin is too close to him, one arm pressed against his back, each inhale and exhale hot against his neck. Just as Michael considers maybe shifting away from him a little, one of Gavin’s arms comes to wrap around his waist as he nuzzles into Michael’s back.

Well fuck. There goes his hopes of shaking off the restlessness nestled beneath his skin. One of Gavin’s hands curls into a fist, holding tight to the back of his shirt as he mumbles something in his sleep. Michael sighs again, listening to the soft murmur of the wind as it moves through the branches and leaves overhead, breathes in the earthy smell of moss and soil all around him. His fingers are digging into the dirt beneath him, feeling its granules between his fingertips, mind whirling as the noises of the forest begin heightening in the silence.

Gavin tightens his hold on his waist, whispering even more fervently into the back of his shirt. Whatever he’s dreaming of is causing him distress, because there are whimpering sounds behind him now and the fist balled into his shirt is tightening its hold and starting to shake. Michael freezes, because he doesn’t know what to do. When he had nightmares in the early days of returning home, Lindsay was always the one who comforted him. He tries now to recall what she used to do, closes his eyes and feels her hands in his hair and hears her voice in a soft hum above the wind.

He shifts slowly, turns carefully. Gavin releases him for a moment and then clutches the front of his shirt as he starts whimpering again. With Gavin facing him now, he’s aware of the quiet “Stop” and “Michael” he keeps whispering. He somehow manages to tangle his fingers in Gavin’s hair, bringing his head to his chest and holding him close, humming softly under his breath. It catches in his throat when Gavin suddenly stills, and then abruptly relaxes against him, snuggling even closer against his chest.

Michael is positive the pounding of his heart is going to wake Gavin, the loud _thumpthumpthump_ that jostles his ribcage and quickens his breathing. He’s never gone to sleep with anyone other than Lindsay near him, has never been comfortable touching anyone that isn’t her, but here Gavin is, once again inserting himself into his life and making it clear that he’s here to stay.

“Michael,” he hears him whisper again, so he pulls him closer still against his chest, one hand still in his hair and the other now wrapped around his waist, and keeps humming, feeling his chest vibrate with each note he releases.

The trilling is still soft in the air and the wind carries their tune, sharp but sweet between them, coaxing Michael’s eyelids close. The trees are bending and singing with the wind, whispering through their branches that “We’ll sing your lullaby for you. Rest now.”

So he does.

 

 

Something skittering across his ankle wakes him. His eyes refuse to open at first, sticks together firmly against the light filtering in through their closed lids. After battling with the exhaustion for awhile, he finally manages to force them open, and blinks himself into awareness.

He barely lifts his head to see a squirrel watching them from where it’s perched on a low branch, head rapidly cocking sideways as it regards them with small, beady eyes. He isn’t in the right mindset for this, doesn’t know what to think about being judged by a fucking rodent. The sun is high in the sky, at least he thinks it is, the glow of the leaves around him tell him that it’s at least late in the morning, making him stretch and start to get up, _properly_ this time, figuring that he could probably go fix something for the both of them to eat and drink.

Only Gavin is still curled around his arm, and had somehow managed to roll on top of it, cutting off the blood circulation to his hand, so Michael can’t even pull it out from under the sleeping Gavin without flipping him over.

“Christ,” he curses as he attempts to gently remove his hand from beneath Gavin. But the action makes Gavin whine and clutch him tighter still, rolling more of Michael’s arm under his frame.

After many subsequent attempts, Michael finally gives up, because he doesn’t want to wake Gavin, and no amount of whispering “Move over move over _move the fuck over_ ” seems to register in his brain, so he crosses his legs, albeit a little ungracefully, and settles himself next to Gavin’s sleeping form.

The squirrel is still unmoving, staring back at Michael when he happens to look up. He can’t help the frown that makes its way onto his face, the downward turn of his lips and the little crease behind his eyebrows as he keeps staring at the over-sized rat in the tree, willing it to just go the fuck away and leave them alone.

“Fuck off,” he growls beneath his breath, but the stupid, brainless creature keeps staring at him from its branch. He swears it turns its head up a little at his words however, a small upturn of his nose that gives it a more snobbish look than Michael thinks is possible on a _squirrel_ of all things. So he lets out a huff and wills the squirrel away because he swears it’s _fucking judging him from its branch_ and wills Gavin awake because not being able to feel his arm is freaking him the fuck out and wills the forest to not be so _dead_ because although he enjoys the peace of the undergrowth, this dead silence which leaves a loud ringing in his ears mixed with Gavin’s soft snores frightens him immeasurably, so he hums something mindlessly cheery under his breath in the quiet of the forest.

A sudden wind picks up, but where the breezes in the forest had been warm and welcomed during the past few days, this one is surprisingly cold and sinister, the chill biting into his skin and latching there, clawing its way through the muscle and flesh and burying itself deep in his bones. An ice-cold splinter pierces his heart, making him gasp against the frost wrapping its claws around his throat.

“Michael,” he swears the wind whistles, and suddenly Gavin’s grip tightens on his arm, nails breaking skin as the wind picks up.

His hair is wild in the gust that is blowing through the forest; he instinctively hunches in on himself and tries to cover Gavin from the whatever-the-fuck-it-is as much as possible. Those eyes are suddenly there again, all around him, just staring and staring and staring and never ever blinking, as it watches Michael’s every move, every breath, every minute twitch of his muscles and he can’t breathe–

It stops. As abruptly as everything starts, it comes to a stop, the forest hushing into nothing but a quiet whisper, an attempt to soothe the rush of adrenaline in Michael’s blood.

“Michael?”

He can’t seem to say anything, voice stuck in this throat, but he manages to turn and face Gavin, takes one look at the sleepy-terrified expression on his face and forces his heart to _calm the fuck down_.

“Hey,” he says, noticing the almost imperceptible quiver in his voice at the end of the word, a light tremble that would otherwise have gone unnoticed if not for the shaking of his hands. The blood is rushing into his sleeping arm, sending a warm tingling sensation from his shoulder right down to his fingertips, making him belatedly realise that his hand is wrapped in Gavin’s own warmer ones.

“Your hair’s all mussed up,” he says, sleep still thick in his voice. “What happened?”

“Nightmares,” Michael lies easily enough, looking away from Gavin who is probably trying to read into his soul or some shit like that.

(Plus Michael knows that he’s an open book when it comes to lying, Lindsay told him so, easy enough to read and easy enough to rip apart when he’s trying to tell some untruth, so Michael normally opts for not speaking about anything at all.)

The fucking squirrel is still staring at him from the branch it’s sitting on, a nut between it’s tiny hands. It doesn’t eat it though, just stares at Michael with those beady black eyes, unsettling him thoroughly as he feels Gavin squeeze his hand. “You okay?”

“Yeah yeah,” he replies distractedly, tearing his eyes from the animal still watching them from the tree. “Ready to keep moving?”

Gavin nods, a slight tilt of his head that really is a good sign, because Michael wants this _over and done with_ as soon as possible. There have been too many unknowns and too many irregularities thrown into this whole business and the unpredictability is pushing him beyond his limits. He stands and pulls Gavin up with him, their eyes locking for one drawn out moment. There is so much Michael wants to say, wants to ask, (maybe even wants to kiss away), but Gavin still has sleep heavy in his eyelids, the green glazed over, eyes unfocused. A fond smile forms on Michael’s face and he reaches up to ruffle Gavin’s hair, enjoying a moment of rare peace as Gavin tries to bat his hand away. Before he knows it, there is a quiet creaking noise from above and a nut falls right smack on the top of his head.

Peals of laughter come unbidden from Gavin’s mouth at the soft thud the acorn makes against Michael’s skull. He scowls in response, although there isn’t really any venom in his expression. “Your head’s hollow Michael!” Gavin manages in between breaths.

“Sure it is,” he replies, rolling his eyes good-naturedly before tugging him away from their spot under the tree. “Come on asshole, it’s time to go.”

Gavin is still grinning as they start moving, and Michael turns to give the squirrel a quick look (and he does _not_ stick his tongue out at it; that would be a very immature thing to do) before setting his sights further ahead.

“Slow down Michael, I’m barely awake, and my stomach hurts from all that laughing,” but there’s still a big-ass grin plastered on his face that does funny things to Michael’s insides and makes him become a mushy puddle of affection.

“Asshole.”

There’s a pout. “Michael.”

He lets his lips stretch into a grin in response, all soft and relaxed and _genuinely fucking happy_ around the edges. Neither of them bother to point out that their hands are still interlaced. Neither of them try to let go.

 

 

They travel in silence today. Michael is happy the winds have died down; he prefers the stifling, slightly suffocating heat to the chilly gust that had blown through the forest in the morning. Behind him, Gavin is mostly silent apart from the occasional comment thrown in here and there about the “…terrible weather…” or how he’s “…so exhausted I’m going to faint Michael. _Faint!_ ”

Michael just responds with an unimpressed snort.

“And then you’ll have to carry me Michael!” A pause, and then, “You would like to feel me in your arms won’t you, you smeggy little smegpot,” his voice smug, accompanied with a light squeeze to his hand.

The blood rushes to his cheeks, heating them up. The forest rumbles with laughter, making Michael mutter a “Shut up you morons,” whilst giving the trees around them a betrayed look.

They lapse back into silence when Gavin decides that teasing Michael for his tomato red cheeks becomes boring. Michael realises, when the sun is directly above them, that they may or may not have walked in a circle and ended up back where they started; there is a huge wall of stone and rock looming in the distance which may or may not be the same one they ran out from.

“Fuck,” he curses, stopping abruptly. Gavin bumps into his back at the sudden stop, expression confused.

“What’s wrong Michael?”

“That thing over there,” he says, nodding in the direction of the stone structure. “Do you think it is the same tunnel?”

He doesn’t complete the statement, but notices the almost imperceptible flinch Gavin makes anyway. “I don’t know?” he replies, voice cracking a little at the end.

Michael feels the muscle in his jaw jump. Just thinking about walking into a tunnel that could possibly the same one they ran away from sends chills down his spine. Whatever had been in those tunnels is (are?) definitely still there, and Michael will rather be damned than bring Gavin through that place again. It almost got them once, he isn’t going to take anymore chances.

But their horses and food and water. They _needed_ those things to get back. There hadn’t been dinner last night, just berries and a couple of edible mushrooms he had managed to find, and the both of them had actually gone to bed feeling relatively uncomfortable and unsatisfied; the water they had collected from the river before travelling back into the forest is rapidly depleting, and finding their way back to the river would just waste precious travelling time and energy. And if this is indeed the tunnel they had barely escaped from, it also means that their supplies are nearby, close enough to retrieve.

He could do it on his own. He would hate to leave Gavin all alone, but in this situation, he figures the wildlife would be less likely to kill him (no it wouldn’t) than the thing in the dark. He will leave Gavin at the mouth of the tunnel and trek through the tunnel with a torch that will hopefully keep _it_ at bay, and then travel back through the tunnel with the horses and their things. If the darkness came, then Michael will fight it. Michael will use his sword and scream and kick at it until it fucking retreated or died. Either way, Michael is positive he won’t be the one to give up first. He hates to think about what would happen if he doesn’t make it out alive though; imagines the lost look on Gavin’s face and the tentative “Michael?”’s he’ll call into the tunnel. He quickly shakes those thoughts out of his head.

There is a low rumble in the distance. It isn’t a good rumble, like the one the forest gives when its amused by their antics. It’s a growl, a bass note that rolls over the trees and over the ground and wraps them up in it, the air suddenly becoming thick with moisture.

It’s going to fucking rain.

He makes a split second decision and turns to tell Gavin that they’ll head towards the tunnel, that come what may, he’ll fight every-single-fucking-thing that fate throws their way and make sure they emerge from whatever-it-is unscathed. Turning, he finds Gavin watching him intently, eyebrows slightly creased, eyes worried, a storm brewing in the green that is piercing straight into his soul, the darker olive specks swirling in the otherwise clear sea green of his pupils. He’s so stunned that the words can’t leave his lips, stick to the roof of his mouth and refuse to be coaxed out, so he looks away and tugs Gavin toward the huge stone structure, praying that he doesn’t ask to many questions before they get there.

A bright light flashes in the sky, followed by a low roll, prompting Michael to grip Gavin’s hand tighter and break into a run. Gavin stumbles a little but finally manages to find his footing and keep up. Left, right, left, right, feet pounding on the soil, twigs snapping and leaves crunching beneath their boots, as loud as the thunder overhead and the pitter patter of the rain that is steadily growing with each step they take.

“Hurry Gavin!” he urges and starts sprinting in earnest, dragging along a flailing Gavin.

The journey feels like it takes forever, especially with the rain on their heels and the constant flashes of light that barely illuminates their way. Gavin stumbles once, but Michael manages to catch him before he falls face first into the undergrowth. “I would have broken my nose again!” he exclaims over the thunder, expression shocked.

Michael groans as he starts tugging on his hand again. “Of course you’d break your fucking nose. It’s so huge that you’d literally fall _onto_ it and snapped it in three different places.”

He doesn’t hear the retort forming on Gavin’s lips, because the sound of the rain crescendos into a roar, and Michael tugs even harder on Gavin’s arm and pulls them both toward the mouth of the tunnel that is looming ahead.

“Only a little way more!” he yells above the howling of the wind that had suddenly picked up.

They crash headfirst into the shelter of the tunnel, Gavin landing unceremoniously on top of Michael as the rain finally catches up to them and crashes against the entrance of the tunnel, creating a curtain of water that separates them from the external world.

They lie there, breathing heavily, and to Michael’s surprise, Gavin isn’t such an uncomfortable weight on him after all.

“I think I saw a couple of my utensils when we were running here,” Gavin pants into loud noise of the waterfall at the entrance of the tunnel.

Michael laughs at that, running a hand through his hair at the breathless chuckles that echoes around the walls. After another minute or so of catching their breaths and resting their tired limbs, he finally finds it in him to give Gavin a shove.

“Get off you asshole, you weigh like a fucking ton.”

Gavin lets out a displeased noise as he rolls off and lies on his front, burying his head into his arms. “That’s the most running I’ve ever done,” he sighs into the crook of his arm. “Are my legs supposed to feel like that?”

“Jelly-like?”

Gavin experimentally prods his calf. “Yeah, something like that.”

“Yep, seems you’re an actual human being,” Michael deadpans as he stands up to stretch out the tension in his muscles. “Just wait till tomorrow, everything will be aching like a bitch.”

Gavin mumbles unintelligibly into his hands, but Michael ignores him in favour of examining the water bucket that had emptied itself on their run here. “All the animals will be hiding from the rain too.” He looks up to see Gavin watching him with cautious green eyes, the storm quickly brewing in them again. “All the branches will be wet so we can’t make a fire; we’ll probably have nothing to eat or drink today, unless we make do with rainwater.”

But the water falling over the entrance of the tunnel is brown with debris from the rocks and soil, making it unusable. “Fucking hell,” he sighs, plopping himself next to Gavin on the floor.

“We’ll survive,” Gavin pipes up from where he’s still sprawled on the floor, patting Michael gently on the knee. “We’ll be able to get our supplies by tomorrow.”

He looks suspiciously over at Gavin. How did he know that Michael intended to get their stuff back?

Just as he’s about to ask however, Gavin turns back and buries his head into his arms again, breathing slowly evening out. “I’m just gonna take a quick kip Michael, no big deal or anything. You’re won’t be going anywhere either right?”

But before Michael can assure him that _yes, it isn’t a big deal, he won’t get a huffy and growl at his lazy butt_ , and that _yes, he’ll stay here, right here, where else can he possibly go?_ , Gavin is already asleep, breathing even as he snores into his arms.

 

 

The rain isn’t letting up. Michael is sitting right at the entrance of the tunnel and watching the water droplets fall into rapidly growing puddles on the ground. The tiny splashes in the pools of water does nothing to elevate his rapidly dampening spirits. Unless either of them are willing to catch a cold, they’re going to go hungry tonight, and the rain is going to wash most of the soil into the river too, so braving the weather to hunt for fresh water is going to be equally pointless. All the animals are probably hiding from the turbulent weather in their respective little shelters, laughing at him from where they’re satisfied and comfortable and warm, _looks like we aren’t going to be your dinner today!_

He can barely make out the shape of the forest beyond the thick curtain of water, dark blurry figures that twist and turn and bend under the onslaught of the wind and the rain’s combined forces. Everything is trembling and alive in the thunderstorm, everything except Michael Jones.

 _Fuck_ he curses when thunder booms, too close and too loud, making him jump and scrape his elbow against the wall he’s leaning against. The light outside is flashing uncertainly, and Michael gloomily counts the seconds between the flashes of lightning and the sound of thunder.

One, two, three, another low growl that shakes the earth beneath him, making him sigh and slouch even more into the wall. There is a sudden weight on his lap, and he looks down to see Gavin snuggled into his legs. He had somehow managed to crawl over and locate Michael’s lap without opening his eyes, which makes Michael smile and pet his hair fondly, combing his fingers through Gavin’s hair absentmindedly.

His mood is lifted by the mere nearness of Gavin (which says a lot, and _fuck_ , he isn’t too keen on examining that aspect of their relationship just yet), and he finally brings himself to look at the possibilities for the future objectively.

He could still go through the tunnel. Except he doesn’t have a torch now because the fucking rain is making everything wet and it’ll be a pain in the ass to light (if he even manages it at all). Not to mention how fast it’ll burn out, and then he’ll be stuck in that goddamned tunnel with the remnants of a charred stick and frozen tendrils wrapping around his neck.

He shudders at the thought.

But if he doesn’t head in soon and the rain doesn’t stop its downpour, they’d be starving and dehydrating and stuck at the mouth of the home of something sinister. They’d be trapped. Forced into a corner, darkness on one side, water on the other, making Michael feel fucking claustrophobic. Fingers still threading in Gavin’s hair, he makes a decision. If the rain doesn’t come to a stop in the morning, he’ll brave the darkness, torch or no. He’ll still have his sword, a welcomed weight against his hip, and he’ll use it to save himself if it comes down to it. And Gavin, well, he’ll give him a long and thorough briefing before he leaves. List out a couple of dos and don’ts, make sure that he really knows how to use that bow and arrow in case anything attacks him, point him in the general direction of the palace and tell him to keep heading in that direction. Maybe he’ll pull through on his own (he _will_ pull through on his own, Michael needs to believe that).

“Michael?”

Gavin is looking at him again, eyes barely open but scarily focused, and there is that crease between his eyebrows and a slight downturn of his lips. Michael just hums in response.

“What are you thinking about?” His voice betrays his distress, eyebrows furrowing and hand clutching tightly in his pants.

Michael contemplates telling him for a moment, outline his plan and all courses of action should anything happen to him, but the rain is still falling to an undecipherable rhythm outside, making Michael feel ridiculously plaint and relaxed given what he had just decided to do when the sun rises. So he surrenders to the loosening of his muscles and the quiet beats of the rain against the ground as he smiles down at Gavin. “Nothing.”

“Oh,” he doesn’t look convinced, but Michael doesn’t dwell too much on it.

“No harm getting an early rest since we’re stuck here anyway. The moment the sun comes up tomorrow, we’ll start moving on.”

Gavin doesn’t say anything, just shifts a little for Michael to lie down properly before wrapping an arm around his waist and burrowing into his back.

They lie like that for a few moments, no words said between them, their breathing echoing around the empty area. Gavin’s arms are a welcomed weight against his waist, warm and comforting in face of the turbulent weather outside.

“Michael?”

He snaps out of his reverie when Gavin breathes his name. “Yeah?”

“How has my family been doing?”

Michael abruptly goes stiff. Gavin notices this, because his arms are winding a little tighter around him and he presses even closer to Michael’s back. _In retrospect, I should have expected this_ , Michael thinks to himself. He is the only connection Gavin has to the outside world, the only person who can bring him up to speed with everything that’s been happening in the country, and he supposes that it _had_ been part of the job scope. (But how do you tell him, someone that’s barely an _adult_ that–)

“Your father’s dead,” he blurts out, and winces at his lack of tact. He pays attention to Gavin behind him, feels each shift and tries to detect any form of shock or unhappiness or _anger_ , worse of all; he isn’t prepared or ready to have to deal with any sort of emotional outburst (and again, he can’t help but wish Lindsay is here with her soothing voice and kind words and comforting smell to quell any trying emotions). To his surprise, all Gavin gives is a mere sigh, whole body going lax, a small puff of breath that skitters across his neck.

Michael turns, hands bracketing Gavin’s face as he pulls his head forward to meet his, resting his forehead against his and looking deep into his eyes. The look in Gavin’s eyes is faraway, lips pressed into a thin line. He doesn’t say a word, breathes heavily through his nose, soft huffs that are surprisingly slow and even despite what he just learned.

“Hey Gav?” Michael asks, eyes locked with his, “Gav, you okay?”

Gavin doesn’t say anything for a beat longer, breathing still soft and gentle against his face. “Yeah,” he finally says, and Michael releases the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. He doesn’t say anything for awhile after, and Michael watches the turmoil sweeping across the green, the olive specks whirring with emotion, the creases etched between his brows a frozen fixture on his face. “How’d my mother take it?”

“I’m not sure,” Michael answers, trying hard to keep his voice even. “I wasn’t in the palace at that time, away on some mission, all I heard when I returned was that Gus was the protecter of the kingdom, and had to sit on the throne as acting king until either the princess married or your father’s brothers returned to the land. They later found out that your uncles were already dead, each of them slain in one of the many battles plaguing the smaller villages that surround the capital. They were very valiant men. All of them remained childless to the point of death, narrowing it down to two options: your mother remarrying, which really, was out of the question; or finding a suitor for the princess that your mother claimed had been abducted from her crib. She gathered all the men of the capital one evening, told us that for the sake of the throne, we were to find her daughter. Whoever finds her, marries her, and whoever marries her becomes king.”

Gavin’s lips curl up in distaste. “My mother used _that_ to get people to come rescue me? Bloody idiots, the lot of you.”

“She wasn’t using kingship to get us to rescue you Gavin,” Michael explains, trying to be as patient as possible. “The group of us that volunteered did it out of love and loyalty to the country, we did it for the state Gavin, we did what we thought would be best for the royal family. None of us were interested in ruling a fucking country. It’s too big, has too many responsibilities, plus we’d probably burn it to the ground in less than an hour if we had the throne. And besides, whoever saves you doesn’t actually get to be _king_ , since you turned out to be a guy. I don’t see why _you_ shouldn’t be king. I mean, now that I know about your preference for boys, I can see why the queen would have lied to us about your gender, but since you’re the actual heir to the throne, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t take the throne when you return. Which means that anyone who marries you would only be the escort of the king, which is pretty damn different from being _the king_. So, whoever rescues you and brings you home wouldn’t do it out of greed, just out of love for the country and their personal sense of honour and loyalty.”

Gavin considers this quietly, eyes downcast. “She knew about my sexuality and– and _approved_ of it?”

“Looks like she did,” Michael says, voice still soft. “Your mother really loves you a lot.” This prompts a smile from Gavin, a slight upturn of his lips that softens his expressions and makes the light dance in his eyes.

“And now?” Gavin continues, voice bolder, expression turning serious as his eyes lift, watching Michael carefully. “Do you still protect me for the sake of the state? For your sense of honour and loyalty?”

Michael sighs and closes his eyes. He can see where this is going. “I protect you for _you_ Gavin, because I can’t imagine losing you after all we’ve been through,” he replies, saying the first thing that comes to mind, words completely honest. Cracking open one eye, he sees the small smile playing on Gavin’s lips at his words and feels his face heating up. Oh god, he is becoming a sap, the hugest fucking sap in the entire universe. “I mean,” he splutters, “I had to fight a _dragon–”_

“Which didn’t turn out to be an actual threat.”

“–and protect you from the thousand and one fucking dangerous animals you’d somehow managed to offend–”

“Which wasn’t hard at all considering you didn’t have to _kill_ them or anything.”

“–and teach you how to ride–”

“Well, that was kind of difficult for you, but I could’ve figured it out on my own!”

“–and I’ve still got to protect you from the goddamned-terrifying creature in the tunnels. I wouldn’t want you die after all the trouble I’ve gone through to keep you alive,” he finishes with a huff, cheeks still burning.

The rain seems to slow outside, the thundering of the water droplets against the ground muting to a soft drumming at the back of Michael’s head. Gavin is studying him, their foreheads still connected, his eyes remain calm, yet they are narrowed in suspicion. “You’re going to face the _thing_ in the tunnels? Alone?”

“Gavin–”

“Michael, please be honest with me.”

He pulls away, trying to put as much distance between them as physically possible without disconnecting their limbs that had somehow become entangled during the course of their conversation. “We’ll talk about this tomorrow Gav, it’s getting late.”

Gavin looks about ready to retort, but something flashes across his eyes, something small and indecipherable. _A decision,_ Michael later thinks to himself as he’s falling asleep, Gavin’s arms firmly wrapped around him. _Gavin’s made a decision about something. I’ll ask him about it in the morning._

What that decision is, Michael doesn’t get to ask about in the morning. Because when he wakes up, the place where Gavin slept is empty, the floor stone cold as the rain continues its relentless torrent outside. As he stands and begins frantically looking around for any signs of Gavin, he can’t help but notice how he feels lighter, and not in a good way. His whole body feels off balance, like he’s overcompensating for a weight that is no longer there. His hand instinctively flies down to his hip and when his palm doesn’t come into contact with cool metal, he looks down to find his sword gone.

He turns to the tunnels.

Oh fuck.

 

 

 _Let it not be said that Michael Jones is a fucking coward_ , he keeps telling himself, hands pressed against the tunnel walls. The darkness had swallowed him a long time ago, and the sounds of the rain had faded to nothing as he keeps travelling deeper and deeper into the tunnel. Silence presses on him from all sides, a suffocating silence that steals his breath away and makes his ears feel like they’re about to pop. Despite himself, he’s shaking, trembling in the face of the darkness of the tunnel, whole body tense and ready should anything strike.

“Gavin?” The sound falls, like a stone being dropped into a bottomless well, falling falling falling, and Michael halts his footsteps to wait for a reply.

There is none.

He pushes onward, hands still clinging tight to the tunnel walls, heart in his throat as he holds his breath against the onslaught of fear that threatens to consume him from the inside out; he’d already be dead, killed by his own fear, fucking _frightened to death_ , before the creature in the tunnels find him. A cold chill sweeps through his bones, making them shake in his skin, the chattering of Michael’s teeth loud and persistent.

He wonders how far in Gavin could have possibly walked. Did he have anything else on him besides his bow and arrow and Michael’s sword? He said he barely knew how to use a sword, so in theory Michael’s sword would only weigh him the fuck down. Gavin wouldn’t be able to run, he’d be anchored down when it attacks, and Michael thinks he hears arrows whizzing through thin air as dark chuckles fill the tunnel, echoing around him. He suddenly realises that Gavin could have left a long time ago, left his side before the sun had risen, especially since his side was already cold when he woke up. That would make whatever Michael is doing pointless, because Gavin would likely already be dead by this point if he hasn’t returned. He goes slack against the side of the wall, fingers curling loosely in the dirt. For the first time in his life, he hates that he’s such a pessimist. It helped him foresee the worse case scenarios and let him plan against it yes, but now the image of Gavin screaming and kicking with no one around to hear him, the sounds of his struggles being absorbed into the dirt walls as he vanishes into the dark would not fucking leave his head.

“Fuck fuck fuck,” he curses under his breath, running a hand through his hair. He can’t have Gavin dead, he _can’t_ , so instead of giving up he brings himself to keep moving forward, stumbling along in the darkness. “Gavin? Gavin where are you?” he calls. It doesn’t travel far, but it gives Michael some comfort to keep talking to himself, and to keep calling out as he tries to manoeuvre himself around a particularly vicious bend. “Gavin where are you?” he keeps calling, when all of a sudden, his foot comes into contact with a moderate sized rock on the ground.

He trips and falls, one hand still stubbornly attached to the wall and the other coming to break his fall.

“Fucking–” but he doesn’t finish, shuts his mouth tight when a strong gale lifts him and throws him against the wall. The wind wraps itself around his throat, and Michael finds himself clawing at nothing as he tries to choke in breath after breath.

“I will have you,” something hisses from the darkness, and through the watering in Michael’s eyes, he makes out teeth, each point sharp and succinct, bared in a wide grin. “You’re mine now.”

It cackles at the way Michael’s arms are flailing, body jerking from the lack of oxygen, and Michael finds his brain thinking that he’ll never hate a sound more in his entire life. Michael feels his lungs collapsing with each passing second, a tingling sensation that spreads throughout his body with each choked inhale, arms still reflexively trying to fight off the claws of air that are tight around his throat. He’s fighting a losing battle, and his brain isn’t even receiving enough oxygen to be able to objectively provide him with anymore options.

Michael fucking Jones, who always has a plan, a knight of the castle through and through, is about to die from an invisible enemy. The teeth open to reveal a bottomless hole that Michael assumes is its mouth. He wants to scream at it, throw a punch at it, stab it, kick it, hurt it in any way possible, but his limbs are beginning to go numb from the lack of oxygen and his vision is spinning as the mouth draws nearer and nearer, seconds away from swallowing him whole.

He thinks of Gavin, of sunlit hair and the ocean that lights on fire in his eyes, his laugh, his tantrums, his incessant screams of “Michael!” when he needs help, his lips, that had been soft and pliant and sweet against his. If only he got to kiss Gavin one last time–

Everything falls silent. He crumbles from his spot against the wall into a heap on the floor, limbs void of strength and vision swimming, heart pounding, ears ringing. Gulping in breaths of air while running a trembling hand through his curls, he presses his other hand to his chest and feels the solid thumpthumpthump beneath his ribcage.

He’s alive.

He’s fucking alive, and in one piece. Apart from the slight scrapes he got struggling against the grip of the darkness, he’s unhurt and _alive_. Relief washes through him, calming and satisfying all at once, before he notices the light glow that illuminates the tunnels. Standing, he steadies himself with a hand against the wall as he starts walking further in, heart pounding too loud too fast in his ears. “Gavin?” he calls out, voice hoarse, and waits (prays) for any sort of reply.

There still isn’t any.

He squashes the thoughts of his rational brain, hide it behind hope (stupid, frivolous hope) and keeps pushing forward. _He can’t be dead,_ he grits out in his head, tears involuntarily springing to his eyes. _He can’t be fucking dead. Not now, not when we’ve finally won._

His footsteps quicken, hand chaffing against the dirt wall its plastered to, and he breaks into a full sprint as he keeps yelling “Gavin!” into the soft glow of the tunnel. The next bend finds him sprawled on his front, legs giving way beneath him. He sees the exit to the tunnels, and knows that Gavin– well Gavin isn’t here. Not anymore. The rational part of his brain that has been suppressed by his urge, his need for Gavin to be alive suddenly comes bursting through, rattling off possibilities and probabilities that all point to the same thing: Gavin isn’t _here_ anymore. He buries his face into his arms and lets the tears flow, an angry rhythm that makes him feel _furious_ at the injustice in the world. Of all the things they take away from him, they take away Gavin, who is too bright smiles and the only thing that will ever calm him the way Lindsay does.

_You’ve already taken away my parents, and now him too?_

He lays there for awhile longer, and considers just lying there until dehydration and starvation kill him. He doesn’t want to move, doesn’t feel like moving for a million years, wants his body to disintegrate into dust and sand, wants to watch it be consumed from the inside out by maggots, body bloated and water logged as other creatures tear at the meat from his dead body. But he supposes that he has to go back and break the queen’s heart anyway. Tell her that her son is _dead_ (holy fuck) and watch as she breaks down. _If only my life for his,_ he thinks to himself, nose still pressed against the soil on the floor, tears vanishing into the dirt. He blames himself, for not noticing when Gavin woke up this morning, not noticing when he had taken his sword, fuck for not realising what he had decided last night when they were talking. He never should’ve told Gavin about his plan. He had been too careless, too stupid, too useless. And Gavin– it's entirly his fault. If he had been a bit more attentive, less of a _pig_ and had noticed the minute Gavin left his side in the dead of the night, this wouldn’t have happened. They were still be alive, no closer to survival maybe, but _alive_. He doesn’t know how long he stays there, unmoving, before he pushes himself up and faces the exit, heart in his throat and still in shock.

Fuck this.

Stumbling unsteadily towards the exit, the tears drying on his face, he mindlessly waves away some weird glowing creatures that come buzzing too close to his face. He doesn’t question, doesn’t ask, because all his body can think of is _Gavin is dead_ and they didn’t even have the time or chance to figure out what they were or could’ve had together.

When he steps into the light, he sits heavily, back to the tunnel entrance, and lets himself weep again.

 

 

There are hands on his face, wiping away the tears, thumb running over his cheeks again and again. “Michael?”

He looks up, feels an ache deep inside him at the sight of green eyes and brown hair. _I’m fucking hallucinating already?_ But lets himself keep staring at the image of Gavin in front of him.

“Michael?” and Michael flinches at the way his name is said. “Michael, what’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

And there are warm hands petting him down, before fingers lace with his and Michael looks beyond this _illusion_ of Gavin to see his sword lying on the ground a distance ahead of him, a bow and some arrows next to it. “Gav?” he whispers, so so scared that the moment he says his name, Gavin is going to disappear, vanish between his fingertips into nothing but dust and memories.

“Hey Michael,” Gavin says, smiling softly. “Looks like I found you my little Michael.”

Michael squeezes the hand within his, thumb running along the inside of Gavin’s wrist. He leans forward slowly, presses his head against Gavin’s chest, and there, _there_ it is, the slow beating of Gavin’s heart, right there, beneath his ear. Crawling forward, eyes wide, he finally brings himself to look into Gavin’s eyes, and sees himself reflected there, the red of his hair setting the ocean in Gavin’s eyes on fire.

“Gavin,” he breathes, a smile tugging at his lips, tears starting to flow again, as he grips the hand within his tighter tighter tighter. _I’m never letting you go again._

“What’s wrong Michael?” Gavin asks, worried. But Michael only feels joy, something soft and warm that’s growing inside his chest, and laughter bubbles out of his mouth as Gavin looks on, puzzled with his erratic moods no doubt.

“You asshole,” he breathes, and Gavin’s retort is cut off by Michael’s lips pressing against his.

(This time, Michael is the one who leans in first.)

 

 

“You killed the _thing_?”

“Yeah,” Gavin says, gnawing at his lower lip. “I think it’s dead? I’m not actually sure, I mean, I’m _pretty_ sure I ran your sword through it and it vanished when I did that, but other than that, I’m not sure if it’s actually vanquished or it simply ran away.” He casts Michael a sidelong glance. “Anyway, once it let go of me, I realised it broke my ankle and possibly sprained the other, so I crawled my way out of the tunnel. Thank god for those weird glowing creatures that lit up the tunnel, although I have no idea where they’re from.”

“They kept buzzing at my face when I came out, but I didn’t think too much of them.”

Gavin shrugs. “Anyway, I crawled out here and found all our stuff still intact. The horses seem fine, weirdly enough, not on the brink of starvation or dying of dehydration, all our food packs and water are completely untouched.”

They’re sitting at the mouth of the tunnel, both leaning against the wall facing toward the clearing they had first started out in. The rain has slowed to a drizzle, a soft pitter patter against the soil beneath their feet. It makes everything feel alive, cleanses their sense and carries the musky smell of the earth and the forest with it which Michael breathes in gratefully. It’s oddly calming, having nature all around him, and it soothes the remnants of his earlier adrenaline rush into nothing but a smooth coursing of blood through his veins.

Nodding, Michael is thankful Gavin is sensible enough to check on their supplies, first thing when he made it out. They are sharing pieces of dried meat, a loaf of bread as well as a moleskin of water between them, ravenous and thirsty as they are from yesterday. Gavin is studiously eating his bit of bread and meat, ignoring the look Michael sends his way; he’s been avoiding the question, skirting around the topic Michael is so desperately trying to pry out of him. “Why did you go in there alone Gavin?” he presses, voice urgent, hand clutching at his wrist.

Something dark clouds over Gavin’s expression, before it softens into resignation, a rueful smile playing at his lips. “I did what had to be done Michael, to keep us safe.” _To keep you safe,_ Michael hears beneath those words. “You wouldn’t have been able to kill it, and you would’ve _died_ Michael, and I couldn’t just sit by and let that happen. I–” Gavin stops himself, eyebrows furrowing in distress. “Did it nearly kill you anyway?”

Michael nods, sighing loudly. “I thought it got you too,” to which Gavin looks down guiltily. “Look Gav, next time, you discuss this with me. You _tell_ me before you decide on doing anything stupid and potentially life-threatening okay? You don’t just– _vanish_ on me and expect me to be okay with it, or expect me to just sit by and wait for you, it won’t happen. Not like this. Got it?”

Gavin is nodding furiously, eyes still downcast. “Are you–” he hesitates, “Are you mad with me?”

Sighing heavily again, Michael furiously tugs at his hair. “No Gav. Mostly, I’m just glad you’re fucking alive.”

The beaming smile Michael gets as a response makes his insides do weird flips and jumps, like a fucking circus decided _hey, let’s make a stop in Michael’s stomach!_ (Oh fucking hell, the stress is making him retarded.)

“Okay,” he announces as he stands, “Enough bullshitting around here. It’s time we get you home.”

He bends down and picks Gavin up, carrying him over to the horses and perching him carefully on one of them. “Michael, I can’t ride. Not with a broken ankle.”

“I know,” Michael calls back. “Gimme a second.”

He leads the second horse over to the first, tying its reins to the saddle of the first. Grabbing some spare cloth and some pieces of wood, he makes his way over to Gavin, still barely balanced on top of the horse. “Michael what are you–” and he starts squirming when Michael picks up his sprained ankle and starts wrapping it in cloth.

“Hold still Gavin– _jesus_.” Gavin lets out a howl as Michael presses the first piece of wood against the side of his foot. Quickly, he straightens Gavin’s foot and starts bandaging it quickly.

“Ow Michael,” he whines, fidgeting uncomfortably. Michael ignores the pained noises he’s making as he moves over to Gavin’s other foot. It’s swollen, an ugly red and purple and blue that’s spreading up the side of his calf. He carefully removes the shoe on his foot and lifts it gently.

Gavin flinches at the movement as Michael experimentally touches the swollen area.

“Is it supposed to hurt that much?”

“Yeah,” Michael says as he continues tying up the broken ankle. He covers up the discolouration, bit by bit, covering up the streaks of red outlining the blue and purple splotches that are spreading across the entire circumference of his ankle. “It’ll probably hurt worse tomorrow. The adrenaline makes everything a little more bearable right now. By tomorrow,” he continues, tying the bandage off, “It’s gonna hurt like a bitch.”

Gavin grimaces at that.

Michael gets into the space behind Gavin, one hand wrapping around his waist and the other reaching in front of him to grip the reins. “Hold tight,” he says, letting Gavin arrange himself so that he’s comfortably leaning against Michael’s front. With the warm ( _alive_ ) weight of Gavin against him, he spurs the horse into a trot. It’s time to get them home.

 

 

The forest around them whispers as they ride through it. Gavin is asleep, head lolling against his shoulder. He’s a little taller than Michael (which makes Michael fucking mad, because how can _Gavin_ be taller than him?) so he’s reaching over Gavin’s shoulder to look at the road ahead of him. The wind blowing through the forest is warm today, a comfortable breeze that lifts Michael’s spirits. Enjoying the sun’s rays on his back, he lets the sound of the horses hooves against the road lull his mind into a state of contentment. He’s exhausted, quite frankly, from all the mourning (there’s no way he had been _crying_ , that’s for babies) and fighting for his life and just surviving in general. The sounds of birds and the quiet rustling of leaves are making him sleepy, what with the comfortable wind and the fact that they’ve had food to eat.

Above, the sky is clear, bits of blue that stream through the green, the light from the sun making the leaves look translucent in the early afternoon. The first traces of red are spreading across the trees, red crowns that frame the green-yellow leaves that are still in abundance. The colours make everything seem brighter, or maybe it’s the fact that impending doom has been permanently eradicated and everything is going smoothly that makes everything seem _better_ in general. Michael isn’t too sure where this immense joy is coming from, but it’s warm and fuzzy and more than satisfying so he lets the sound of hooves against dirt and the low whinnying of horses accompanied by the gentle rocking of being on horse back clear his head.

In front of him, Gavin is stirring, finally awakening from his long nap. He stretches, and winces when he accidentally jostles his feet, mouthing a quiet “Ow,” as he turns his head towards Michael. “Well that _did_ hurt like a bitch.”

Michael chuckles in response, ruffling his hair and grinning at him. “You’ll be fine Gavin.”

They stay in companionable silence after that, only with the occasional “What’s that Michael?” as Gavin starts asking about every single thing that crosses their paths.

“That’s a raccoon you shithead,” Michael laughs when Gavin asks about _the weird, amble-y thing_.

He tunes Gavin out when he starts rambling about how his observations are absolutely _top_ and doesn’t even bother to retort when Gavin calls him a dummy at some point. He’s in too much of a good mood, and Gavin rattling off stupid ideas at the top of his head now that he’s fully awake makes Michael feel incredibly thrilled that they’re both _alive_ (and he’s never going to get over that, get over the fact that he had been, a mere few hours ago, staring death in the face, and had had the chance to look at it and say _not today_ ), possessing him to start humming random tunes under his breath.

Most of them are tunes he’s heard Lindsay sing when she’s trying to get her siblings to sleep, and some are just little jokes she used to throw at Michael, laughing at him because he could never sing up a good enough comeback.

“Did Lindsay teach you that?”

He’s a little taken aback (okay, fuck that, he’s _fucking_ taken aback), because he’s mentioned her _once_  to Gavin, but it had been mentioned in passing, a casual slip of the tongue that didn’t mean more than a bit of context about how terrible he is at human relationships. “Yeah,” he says anyway, wary of the direction this conversation could potentially take.

“I figured,” Gavin replies, nonchalant. “Does she do all the human things for you?”

Michael sighs. “Gavin, what are you tr–”

He is silenced by a glare. “ _Does_ she Michael?”

“Depends on what you mean by _human_ ,” Michael retorts, not exactly sure why he’s exuding righteous anger all of a sudden. It’s not like Gavin’s fucking accusing him of anything anyway. “Did she teach me how to eat and drink? Fuck no, I figured that shit out on my own.”

“You know what I mean Michael,” Gavin continues, throwing him a dirty glare.

And there goes Michael’s mood, completely ruined by Gavin fucking interrogating him in the middle of the goddamned forest. And about what? Lindsay? What the hell is Gavin suspecting him of? “What you mean Gavin? Honestly, I’ve no idea what the fuck you mean. Stop with these goddamned riddles already,” he growls, tightening his grip on reins in front of him. Gavin isn’t letting up however, Michael can tell from the tense set of his shoulders and the way he’s leaning forward and away from Michael.

“Does she comfort you when you have nightmares? Did she teach you how to kiss? Was she the one who taught you how to love someone, teach you what a relationship is truly about?” Gavin gets more tense with each item he lists, face turned away from Michael, refusing to look him in the eye.

Heaving an enormous sigh, his whole body moving with the sound, Michael closes his eyes and steadies the thoughts running wild in his head. “Yes, sort of, a little, no. Answer your questions?”

Gavin doesn’t answer, and Michael is immensely thankful for that. He won’t be able to deal with it, the unending questions and the accusatory glances. Gavin’s right, Lindsay does all these human things for him, roots him and brings him down to each when he starts to float away. What he doesn’t understand is why Gavin is so hung up about it, why he sounds so hurt and angry and refuses to even look at him. Right now, he’s sitting ramrod straight, trying not to touch Michael in any way possible. Michael studies the back of Gavin’s head, trying to see through the skull and read what’s going on inside that crazy fucking head of his.

And then it hits him.

“Are you jealous?” Michael asks, probably a little too loudly, making Gavin jump in his seat in front of him, and Michael watches as a red blush spreads up the back of his neck.

“Wha– what Michael? No! No I’m not!”

And Michael laughs, big and loud, whole body shaking with each bark of laughter he lets out. “You are!” he exclaims, “You are! You are! You are!” and he feels like he’s no older than fucking nine right now but he can’t care less, not when his head is spinning with this newfound knowledge. “You’re fucking jealous!”

Gavin gives him a small huff and pointedly keeps himself angled away from having to face Michael. “We’re not talking about this any longer.”

“I thought _you_ were the one who wanted to keep talking about it,” Michael teases.

Gavin lets out another huff and relaxes back into Michael. “Just keep your focus on the road you idiot.”

Michael lets out another small laugh, urging the horses a little faster forward.

(Later that evening when he has his arms wrapped around Gavin, he’s not taking anymore chances, Michael whispers that yes, Lindsay grounds him and he can’t imagine life without her, but he can’t imagine life without Gavin either, and he wouldn’t trade him for anything in the world.

He thinks he feels Gavin smile in response.)

 

 

They are less than a day’s ride away from palace. Stopping at a clearing, they’ve taken out another loaf of bread and are sharing it between them as the birds chirp overhead. It’s a ridiculously picturesque scene, the two of them laughing at anything everything in a bright beautiful afternoon, without a care in the world. The trees laugh along with them, rapid rustling of their leaves. The first leaves of autumn are falling, and Gavin is thrilled by all the leaves he can pick up and continuously hurl at Michael, ignoring Michael’s repeated noises of displeasure.

“We’ll be back in the palace soon enough,” Michael says when their laughter has finally tapered off to comfortable silence. Gavin is lying with his head against his stomach, hair splayed out in a halo around him. Michael lets himself tangle his fingers in Gavin’s hair (before they return and he may not be able to spend time with Gavin anymore, not when he becomes the king and will have things he needs to attend to that are more important than plain old Michael), finger tracing the shell of his ear.

He hears a soft sigh. “And I’ll be back in a stuffy room, and everyone will be boring. Boring, boring, boring. No one there will be fun to talk to Michael. I’ll be cooped up in that room for the rest of my days.”

Michael hums in agreement. “The palace is pretty boring.”

“I’d ask them to get me a bigger bed for after we get married though, then at least I’d have someone to share the boredom with.” Michael notices the quick glance Gavin gives him from the corner of his eye. He doesn’t respond. “Of course,” Gavin stammers out quickly, “If you don’t want to share a bed with me, I can get you a different bed, or maybe a different room you know. And, um, you won’t actually have to marry me or anything if you don’t want to. My mother was being a snob, you don’t actually have to do anything you don’t want to or marry anyone you don’t want to.”

“I–” Michael starts hesitantly, before steadying himself with a breath that jostles Gavin’s head. “I wouldn’t mind marrying you.” Gavin stiffens against him in surprise. “But we’d do it the right way, with a proposal and all that. And not here, not when we’re out in the wild. If we do this, we’d do it right.”

Gavin’s looking up a him, eyes bright, a smile lighting up his features. He’s giving him a look that screams _you’re my knight in shining armour, my fucking hero_ that makes Michael blush under the adoration and purse his lips as he continues running his fingers through Gavin’s hair.

“We’ll figure out the details, won’t we Michael?”

“Hell yeah we will,” Michael replies with a small smirk. “And if you or you mother wants kids or something, we’ll figure that shit out too.”

That elicits a laugh from Gavin, a soft ringing sound that sends a thrill through Michael; he realises that he wants to hear that sound forever.

(Fuck these mushy notions, he’d sooner get used to dealing with them than to have to actively suppress them.)

He stands, lifting Gavin’s head off of his stomach and plopping it unceremoniously onto the ground beside him. “Well asshole, thanks for making me talk about ridiculously sappy shit. I think this means its time for us to start moving again.”

Offering a hand to Gavin, which he gladly accepts, Michael pulls him up and supports him. His feet have begun to heal, but while the sprained ankle is still mostly bruises, the bone in the broken one needs to be properly set.

He gets Gavin properly seated on the horse and hops on behind him while simultaneously reaching down for his sword, feeling its hilt resting firmly against his hip.

Gavin doesn’t miss the movement. “Still paranoid I’d steal it again?”

“Yep,” Michael replies, spurring the horse into a trot.

He doesn’t miss the short bark of laughter over the sound of hooves against the dirt road.

 

 

The trumpets sound long before they reach, giving the queen and the acting king more than enough time to get to the main gates of the city and await the arrival of the long lost heir to the throne. Gavin’s mother immediately smothers him in hugs and begins weeping into his shirt when she sees the injuries he sustained, while Gus goes over to Michael and pats him heavily on the back.

“Good job boy,” and then he vanishes into the sea of people that are crowding in and pressing toward Michael, with loud cheers and firm pat-on-the-backs. Mostly, it just makes Michael want to see Gavin.

Said prince (and how weird is that as a concept?) is being ushered away by his mother a crowd of the palace finest servants, all fawning over him as he leans heavily against someone Michael assumes is the royal physician. Around him the people are pressing in closer and closer still, suffocating him and making him fucking claustrophobic. But because he’s Michael Jones, he forces on a smile and accept the many words of congratulations thrown his way. 

“Oh come on, give the guy some space will you?” and the crowds part to reveal Ray with a glowing Lindsay in tow, the both of them giving him excited grins when they finally come face to face with him. “Your majesty,” Ray says with a flourish, bowing deeply to him.

“Oh shut the fuck up Ray,” is Michael’s reply, a grin spreading across his lips as he pulls him in for a hug. Lindsay is next, practically leaping into his arms and burying her face into the crook of his shoulder. “Hey Lindsay.”

“Hey asshole,” comes the muffled reply.

Michael pulls away from her death grip on him. “Hey, that’s my nickname for Gavin.”

Lindsay just grins, and Ray pulls them both in for a hug again, making Michael laugh as Lindsay squeals and Ray squeezes them tight. This feels like home.

 

 

It’s been three days before they let him see Gavin again, and he’s been getting progressively restless. After narrating his entire adventure in the first day, he’d found no amount of sitting around and waiting is going to assuage his fears about Gavin forgetting him. He keeps talking aloud, driving Lindsay and Ray nuts with his musings, wondering if “Gavin’s okay; he has nightmares at night, and he’s fucking afraid of alligators and the dark. And he needs someone to sleep with, because he clings to them like a motherfucking octopus.”

And no matter how many times Lindsay says “He’s fine,” and Ray makes another joke about the two of them being practically _married_ , it does absolutely nothing to calm those fears. Only serves to make him feel more antsy and irritable.

When he’s summoned to the palace, royal guards flank him on either side, their helmets down and shields in position, spears ever ready to be deployed. It’s fucking weird, being treated like a threat, and he wonders how anyone could possibly ever get used to this when he thinks of foreign dignitaries entering their courts. He has on his best suit of armour, a request of the queen supposedly, and is currently being escorted down a very long, very posh hallway, inordinately decorated, pictures and mirrors lining every inch of the wall. A man standing guard outside one of the doors they pass by bow to him, a slight dip of his head, before knocking in rapid succession against the polished wood. “Sir Michael Jones is here,” he announces.

Only when there is a muffled “Let him in,” does he push the door open, gesturing for Michael to enter. He does, with the two dozen or so guards still standing beside him. The first thing he notices is Gavin, who brightens up immediately upon seeing him, and the fond look the queen gives him when she notices his excitement. He’s standing in the middle of a giant room, a huge chandelier suspended from above, the curtains all drawn back to let the light in. Michael falls to his knees and lowers his head towards the queen. When she nods and says a simple “Rise” does he stand, respectfully lowering his gaze.

“Gavin says he has a new appreciation for the sunlight, and I can see why,” she starts, folding her hands across her lap. “It _does_ make your hair look beautiful.”

Michael blushes at the unexpected praise and murmurs a quiet “Thank you, your highness” in response.

“No need to be so formal now,” she exclaims, rising from her seat and walking over to him. “After all,” and she places her hands on either of his shoulders, forcing him to look up at her. He notices that her eyes are green too, and is immensely thankful for how kind they look. “We are family now.”

He casts a quick glance at Gavin, who is barely containing his excitement, and offers her a polite smile. “But I still couldn’t my lady–”

“Oh you can, and you will,” she replies, a hint of childishness tinting her words. Again, Michael marvels at how similar she is to Gavin. “And just imagine your babies! I simply _insist_ each of you father a child. I want redhead grandchildren, and _oh_ they’d be the loveliest things ever!”

Michael blushes even harder at the implications, and scratches the back of his neck awkwardly.

She seems oblivious to his discomfort and continues rambling. “We had this room specially fitted for the both of you, young lovers that met through danger and adventure, such _romantic_ notions. My son said you’d propose to him when you’re ready, and I can’t _wait_ until you do so, I’d have that story written in books for my grandchildren,” she trills as she walks around the room with dramatic sweeps of her skirt.

“Mother,” and Michael turns quickly to face Gavin, who hasn’t spoken since he entered, whose voice he’s missed dearly, even though he really talks way too much. Gavin blushes under his gaze. “You’re making Michael uncomfortable.”

This makes the queen spin around and glance at Michael before turning to face Gavin. “I think he’s perfectly comfortable, aren’t you Michael my dear?”

He’s too tongue-tied right now, so he simply nods. She giggles in response, looking fondly at the both of them.

“Thank you for returning Gavin to us love, and I’m glad it was _you_ that found him. Gavin is absolutely enamoured with you, says you’re the first person to treat him like a real human being despite the annoyed little huffs you give him whenever he gets something wrong or becomes muddle-headed. He adores those little huffs though,” she whispers, giving him a little wink. “Thinks you’re absolutely adorable when you do it.”

Both Michael and Gavin blush fiercely at that, and Michael thinks his face can not turn any redder than it is now.

She smiles knowingly at them, tilting her head toward Gavin. “I suppose you two wish to be alone now?” to which Gavin nods furiously, giving a small wave of his hand. Walking up to him, she curtseys lightly before kissing him on the nose. “Thank you Michael,” she says, hands bracketing his face. “We are eternally in your debt.” And before Michael has a chance to respond, the guards are gone, as is the queen, leaving only him and Gavin in a huge empty room.

“Sorry about my mum,” is how Gavin breaks the ice. He stands from his seat, leaning heavily on a crutch, a half-smile gracing his features. “She can be a little… over the top.”

“Just like you,” Michael replies as he shrugs, a small grin on his face too.

“Idiot.”

“Asshole.”

Gavin is full-on grinning, eyes lighting up mischievously. “I’d run straight into your arms if I wasn’t so handicapped right now.”

Michael shakes his head as he laughs, walking over to where Gavin is standing on an elevated podium. Bowing deeply to him, he drawls out, lazy and long “Your highness, may I?” and watches the amusement sparkle in Gavin’s eyes.

“Of course,” is Gavin’s reply. When Michael straightens up with a sparkle in his own eyes however, Gavin takes an involuntary step back. “Wait, what are you–”

His squeals of excitement echo around the empty area, as Michael’s fingers work mercilessly against his sides. Between the breathless “Michael stop!”s and the numerous kisses he’s able to steal from Gavin, Michael thinks that yeah, this isn’t so bad after all.

 

\--

“Taylor Free-Jones, you come back here this instant!”

Michael’s words are (again) ignored, as twin pairs of feet make small thuds against the carpet outside. His daughter, is in his arms, contentedly suckling on her thumb, but he’d just managed to get her quiet after about an hour long battle with her for the insect she’d insisted on consuming. She is teething, a terrible stage where she grabs anything and everything small enough to put into her mouth, and chews on it until they become practically unusable. In her own baby way, she attempts to tell him something, accompanied by wild limb waving and incoherent sounds. Michael kisses the tip of her nose, making her giggle.

“Tyler Free-Jones, you bring your sister back to this room _right now_!” Michael yells again when he hears two sets of tiny footsteps tearing down the hallway, and a few distressed cries from some of the servants. Love Free-Jones is babbling more loudly now, as he lowers her into the crib, but when he retracts his arm from around her middle, her mindlessly babble escalates into a bawl. “Jesus christ,” he swears under his breath as he picks her up.

“Geebub chwist,” she cheers, pumping a tiny fist in the air.

Michael looks at her in horror. “Oh no, no way are those words becoming your first,” and then he throws open the door to watch two redheads vanish around the corner. “Tyler and Taylor Free-Jones, I’m giving you five seconds to get your asses back here this very instant!”

“Ashus!” she pronounces proudly, turning a few heads.

“Ashes,” Michael repeats weakly to the few servants giving him death glares. “We were, ah, just practicing talking about what we can see in the room, right sweetheart?” and jostles the baby in his arms.

Love looks at him and shakes her head reproachfully, expression saying _When they tell papa, you’re gonna be in a lot of trouble_.

And Gavin said their kids are gonna be _amazing_. Michael sighs and lifts her so she’s sitting on his shoulders. He feels little fists curling into his hair and he shrugs his shoulders, jostling her and making her squeal in delight. “Five,” he calls out, bouncing Love on his shoulders. “Four,” he hears the footsteps returning, a little closer now. “Three,” there is the sound of a startled maid around the corner. “Two,” Michael winces at the ensuing crash. “One,” and there they are, Tyler and Taylor Free-Jones, twin redheads that come speeding around the corner of the hallway and barrelling straight toward Michael. They try to get past him, but Michael’s training as a knight had not been for nothing, so he grabs the nearest twin’s arm, which happens to be Tyler, and dangles him from above. This means that Taylor is caught too, by default; the twins are always holding hands refusing to let go save when they use the bathroom, and while Gavin finds this extremely adorable, Michael doesn’t really. He uses the momentum to swing them up to chest level and wraps one arm around both their tiny chests which is quite a feat considering how much they’ve grown and with the other hand, he braces Love carefully on his shoulders and makes his way back into the room, away from all those disproving eyes. He really sucks at this parenting stuff.

“Daddy,” Tyler whines, kicking his feet unhappily. “Taylor and I were just ane-nile–”

“Annihilating.”

“Anniwaiting the dwagon that caught Papa and put him in the tower!”

Taylor turns to look at her brother with wide, betrayed eyes. “I thought you said we were pwaying water waft wacing!”

“Raft racing,” Michael automatically corrects again. The twins pay him no mind.

“You know I’m terrified of dwagons!”

“Dragons.”

“We _know_ Daddy,” they say simultaneously, and turn dangerous looks at him. Michael sighs and releases them once he’s got them in the room.

“Dwagon!” Love chirps from her place, balanced on top of Michael’s shoulders.

“Wooks wike I ‘ave a new dwagon hunting pa-ar–“

“Partner,” Michael says, walking over to the crib with Love still riding his shoulders.

“Pwatner,” Tyler imitates, face scrunching up, “Now.”

Taylor sticks her tongue out at him in a fit of childish pique. “Fine. You can go take Wove–”

“Love,” Michael chirps up from his place by the crib.

“–and slay dwagons together then, see if I care.”

Michael sighs, he’d really hoped that today would not be one of _those_ days. The twins were usually inseparable, but some days even being with someone similar to you gets tiresome and annoying, which results in really bad fallouts that Michael is usually left to deal with. “They have your DNA,” Gavin reasons. “Figured you’d understand them better than me.”

But Michael does _not_ understand, so he puts Love down, much to her displeasure until he hands her her favourite stuffed bunny which she promptly puts into her mouth, and walks over to the twins who have their arms crossed and are facing away from each other.

“Hey. Are we on talking terms here?” Michael asks, bending down to their level.

Taylor replies with a “Ask him” the same time Tyler says “Ask her”.

“Well, then Taylor, why don’t you go play with your dolls while I talk to your brother?” to which she lets out a small snort of indignation before storming away. When she’s out of ear shot, he sits himself down properly next to Tyler.

“Are you gonna scold me?”

“No.”

“Puh-nee–“

“Punish.”

“–puhnish me then?”

“Nope.”

“Wock me away?”

“What? Lock you– now where’d you get that idea?”

Tyler shrugs.

“Christ, come here,” he says, patting his lap in invitation. God this kid was fucked up in the head, just like he suspected he’d be.

“Are you gonna tell me a stowy?”

“Story–” Tyler glares at him again, “–and yes, I’m telling you a story.” Tyler settles more comfortable against Michael, twiddling with his fingers. “Well, not really a story, but I need you to know something.” This gets Tyler’s attention, because he looks up a little and watches Michael carefully. “You see Tyler, princesses need knights–”

“Wike how Papa needed you?”

“Yeah,” Michael says with a smile. “And Taylor, she’s a princess alright, and sometimes princesses get scared of things, like dragons–“

“And awigators and spiders and dogs!” Tyler pipes up knowledgeably.

“Yes, I think? Something like that,” Michael continues waving his hand dismissively. “And when princesses get scared, it’s the _knight’s_ job to protect them, and protection doesn’t necessarily mean that he has to be bigger or stronger than the princess, it just means that he needs to give in to the princess, a lot, in order to keep her safe. Are you following me with this?”

“Sorta?” Tyler replies, expression scrunched. “So ya–”

“You’re.”

“–saying that I should give in to Taywor?”

“Yes, or offer to protect her at least.”

Tyler closes his eyes and scrunches up his face, expression contemplating before he lets out a long suffering sigh. “Fine Daddy,” he relents. “I’ll go apo-wo–”

“Apologise.”

“–say sowwy to her.” Michael stands as he jumps out of his lap and races over to where Taylor is settling her dolls in for tea. Love sees the exchange, and is babbling happily as she works her way through her fifth stuffed toy in a month.

Michael busies himself with her, making cooing noises at her as she tries to grab his hair, or his nose, or anything that comes within reach, small fists and feet working meticulously as she keeps babbling happily to herself. “You’re exactly like your Papa,” he coos. “Down to the hair and eyes and nose. You’re gonna be a beautiful princess one day too.”

“Yeah she is!” Tyler says, hands linked with Taylor’s again, who’s peering down into the crib along with him.

“Am I gonna be a pwetty pwincess too Daddy?” Taylor asks, to which Michael responds by sweeping her off her feet, much to her delight.

“Yes you are, he says, tickling her sides as she squirms and lets out peals of laughter.

“Me next! Me next!” Tyler yells, jumping up and down, as Love starts making louder noises from where she’s laying down, excited by all the commotion.

Just when Michael’s getting tired of all the flying he has to do, the door opens and Gavin announces loudly, “I’m back!” and is rewarded by a pair of redheaded twins barrelling into him and nearly knocking him off balance.

“We missed you Papa!” Tyler and Taylor chorus together, clinging tight to his shirt as he awkwardly shuffles over to the crib.

“Hello Love,” and she happily swipes at his nose. “Have you been good for your Daddy?”

She doesn’t reply, not that Gavin is expecting her to, so he puts her back down in the crib and leans over to Michael, stealing a quick kiss from him.

“And how about you?” he says when he pulls away. “Busy day with the kids?”

“No more than usual,” Michael hums in response, pulling Gavin closer and stealing a longer kiss from him, much to the displeasure of Tyler, who says “Ew” and “Gross” multiple times in rapid succession. Taylor scrunches up her nose in disgust, but remains silent, while Love merely makes more incoherent babbling noises that probably mean _I don’t care_.

“Well, I’m back now,” Gavin continues, “And intend to have as much fun as legally possible without breaking any of you.”

“Wot does legawy mean Papa?” Tyler pipes up.

“Legally means– ah Michael?”

“It means anything you can do without getting locked up,” Michael says, raising an eyebrow at his son. “And where in the world did you hear about getting locked up from?”

“Papa,” he replies innocently. “He says people who do bad things get locked up.”

“Gavin–”

“Oh come on, it’s not like you didn’t teach our daughter how to say _asses_ this morning. One of the servants told me,” Gavin says, prancing around the room with Love firmly tucked against his chest.

Michael flushes in remorse. “I really need to watch my language around the kids.”

“Hell yeah you do!” Taylor pipes up from her tea table.

Both Michael and Gavin are staring at her in shock. “Now I _definitely_ did not teach her that,” Michael says, turning to Gavin with a hand cocked against his hip.

Gavin grins sheepishly. “Ah, well, it was a slip of the tongue…”

Love starts babbling again and Michael lets Gavin go get her a bottle, and he ruffles his hair as he walks past, their way of saying _hey, you know I was joking right?_ Gavin smiles at him, a small one that still does things to Michael’s insides, even after all these years.

“Papa and Daddy, sitting in a twee,” Tyler begins singing loudly.

“K-I-S-S-I-N-G!” Taylor continues, grinning at her brother.

“Oh that’s it you two,” Gavin says, pushing Love and her bottle into Michael’s arms as he dives for the two of them, sending them squealing and racing through the room. Love detaches the bottle from her mouth long enough to start making loud noises at all the excitement again, and Michael just laughs along. This, right here, is absolutely perfect.

 _I agree_ , Love seems to babble tugging on his tunic with one hand and supporting the bottle now back in her mouth with the other. And he was right, all those years ago, that life with Gavin wouldn’t be so bad after all. He keeps thinking that way until something crashes somewhere and he goes sprinting into the bathroom with a thrilled Love in his hands to find an expensive vase lying broken on the floor.

“Goddam–”

“Language!” the kids and Gavin scream simultaneously, and Michael rolls his eyes. But honestly, it wasn’t so bad after all.

 _No it isn’t,_ Love’s expression says wisely before she burps and blubbers happily. Yeah, it wasn’t so bad after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Much thanks to rygarsprite for the amazing artwork done for this fic. You can find it [here](http://rygarsprite.tumblr.com/private/66582753277/tumblr_mw254fMebq1s3kysg)!


End file.
